


I'll Come Around

by vinoharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Content, There will be more tags at the end of the second chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 49,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7687186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinoharry/pseuds/vinoharry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Seven years after their breakup, Harry and Zayn meet again. Too bad they’re both dating other people.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> it's here it's here! i have missed writing zarry so much  
> eternal gratitude to [kay](http://zaynhabibi.tumblr.com/) for your ideas, patience, careful eye, and friendship - without you, this fic would be nothing!

The first time Harry kisses Zayn he’s drunk off rum and Pepsi.

He doesn’t know how many he’s had, but Jonny’s been steadily feeding them to him throughout the night. Everyone has been pinching his cheeks, ruffling his matted hair, and screaming in his face about how he’s now seventeen. The only person who didn’t seem to care, the only person who stood in the corner and didn’t even try to approach Harry once, was Zayn.

But now Zayn’s got him pressed against his bedroom door, smelling like beer and weed, with lips so soft Harry could cry. He’s scared to make a sound above a whisper, scared to do more than cling to Zayn’s leather jacket and kiss him back with everything he has. There’s a particular fragility in this moment that Harry doesn’t want to disrupt.

It’s not that they’re being gentle because the way Zayn’s biting Harry’s lip is most definitely not gentle, but it’s quiet and secluded and Zayn didn’t say anything other than a greeting when Harry followed him up the stairs.

“Happy birthday,” Zayn whispers once they’ve pulled apart long enough.

Harry can feel his cheeks heat and ducks his head. He feels ridiculously giddy over the fact that Zayn – the boy he’s had a crush on for weeks now – has actually come to his party.

“Thanks.” Harry lets go of Zayn’s jacket, but he doesn’t step away like Harry thought he would.

He still feels a bit awkward around Zayn despite the amount that they’ve texted. Harry is braver behind his phone, where he can send texts and toss his phone across the room so he doesn’t have to wait for a response. Here and now though, he feels like he has to work harder to converse. “Um, I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” Zayn agrees. “Did you have a good birthday?”

Harry pushes off the door and strides past Zayn ensuring that he grabs Zayn’s hand as he passes. It’s a bold move and he hopes that Zayn can’t feel how sweaty his hand is. “S’not over yet,” he tells him.

“That was cheesy,” he snorts. Still, Zayn follows Harry until they’re standing beside his bed.

Harry shrugs as he turns, kissing Zayn so he can’t say anything more. Zayn follows easily, cupping Harry’s jaw when they press together. Harry’s half hard in his jeans, weed and alcohol already making him more susceptible to arousal.

“You smell so good,” Harry mumbles, kissing the corner of Zayn’s lips.

Zayn laughs into Harry’s mouth, tugging him in by his biceps. Harry gasps, feeling his heart thud and head swim. He could have really done without the last two shots in the kitchen now that he thinks about it. He lets Zayn kiss him a few more times, careful with a bit of stubble burn.

This should have been happening ages ago – the first time they met, if Harry had any say in the matter. It had been while Harry was at work and Zayn strolled into the bakery with his little sisters. Harry had icing sugar clinging to the tips of his curls and lemon frosting on his cheek. The oldest girl had laughed at Harry’s ramblings until Zayn told her to shut up. That encounter lasted for all of ten minutes before they left the bakery with a bag full of sweets.

Harry prided himself on knowing of everyone in the small town. With less than six thousand people, it wasn’t hard to know who was who and after a quick chat with his mum that night, he discovered that the fit new boy in town had just moved to Holmes Chapel from Bradford.

From then on, Harry saw the mystery boy again and again. Although, Harry wasn’t sure if he could still be considered a mystery boy when he found his Facebook after an admittedly lengthy and creepy search.

On the first day of term, Harry had physically walked into Zayn while coming out of the loo, dropping his phone and getting his earbuds tangled up in Zayn’s spilled paintbrushes. Harry mumbled apologies while Zayn’s friends cackled in the background. They would make eye contact in the school holidays and Zayn would occasionally get a coffee and scone from Harry’s work, but it wasn’t anything to gush to Gemma about. 

It wasn’t until school was winding down for winter holidays, when they once again bumped into each other in line at Tesco’s, that Harry found the courage to ask Zayn for his number.

Harry remembers the look of surprise on Zayn’s face as he fished his phone out of his trousers and handed it over to him. It had seemed significant that Harry could get what he wanted with Zayn. Now he wants to touch him, feel him, but he doesn’t know how to verbalize it.

So he does what he always does with people he wants to impress; he kisses Zayn’s jaw, runs his knuckles up his arm, falls onto the bed and tugs Zayn on top of him. It’s all going well until –

“You’re drunk, Haz.” Zayn’s sitting astride Harry’s thighs. He’s a warm and welcomed weight atop him, but he’s not fully seated. Zayn seems drawn back, cautious. There’s a hint of surprise in his eyes, though. The same surprise that had been in them when Harry had asked for his number.

“So are you,” Harry retorts. To prove his willingness, Harry starts to unbutton his polo.

Zayn’s fingers close around his. His rings are cool on Harry’s skin. “There’re thirty people waiting for you downstairs.”

“They can wait a little longer,” Harry whines. He’s been going mad with lust, fantasizing about Zayn’s hands on him night after night. He shifts his body under Zayn’s. “C’mon.”

“You’ve got a party going.” Zayn bites on his bottom lip and let’s go of Harry’s hands. He blinks his slowly; lush eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheekbones.

Embarrassment jolts through Harry’s system. “Do you not want me?” He forces himself to say. It would be much better to know now so he can get blackout drunk and forget that this ever happened.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Zayn explains. Harry squirms under Zayn again. He can’t help it with the way Zayn’s looking at him like this is one of the hardest decisions of his life. “Just… it’s your birthday. There’re people here to see you and I-”

Harry waits for Zayn to elaborate, but he doesn’t do anything other than avert his eyes. “You what?”

“I’d like to go out before we do,” he flaps his hand around vaguely, “anything else.”

“Really?” Harry brushes his fringe out of his eyes and sits up on his forearms. He grabs at Zayn’s hand and pulls him into a kiss, ignoring the firecrackers of excitement in his stomach. “Yes. Yeah, yes.”

Zayn covers his wide grin with a nonchalant shrug. “Should we get back to the party then?”

+

“And where do you think you’re going?” Anne’s got one hand on her hip and uses the other to point an accusatory finger at him.

Harry immediately turns red, staring at his stepdad for some help. Predictably, he does nothing.

“Your sister’s coming home for supper, there’s no way you’re going wherever you think you are.”

“It’s not even suppertime yet,” Harry argues.

“I need help with the pudding. She’s bringing that new boyfriend ‘round.”

Harry doesn’t bother to suppress his eye roll. “They’ve been dating three months.”

“Which is two months longer than you’ve been dating your boy,” Anne teases. Harry blanches, willing Robin to cut in at any time to save him.

“Oh, you know what, love?” Anne asks with a devious smile already settling in on her face. “Why don’t you bring him?”

“Bring who?”

“Zayn,” Anne sighs. “Bring that lovely boy over so we can meet him properly.”

“I – mum, _no_.” Harry’s mortified at just the thought of introducing his family to Zayn. Zayn’s met Anne a couple of times; the first time Anne picked him up from Zayn’s house because it was raining, the time Zayn came over after school to study, and the one time Anne caught them kissing on the porch. All of those times were in passing though and Anne had been smiley and sweet – on her best behaviour.

Maybe introducing Zayn to Anne and his stepdad wouldn’t be the worst thing for Harry, but Gemma’s more fierce and blunt than their parents. She’ll ask him questions without mercy just to watch Harry squirm. Harry shudders at what she might say – what embarrassing photographs she’ll dig up.

“Why not? I’ve only seen him a couple of times and you’re always rushing him away.”

“Because you’re going to humiliate me!”

“Humiliate?” Anne laughs. “Don’t be dramatic Harry, that’s your sister’s thing.”

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand why this can’t wait another week.”

“Oh we can wait another week,” Anne agrees. “Should we invite Mike? It’s been a while since you’ve seen your stepbrother and I’m sure he would love to meet Zayn and tell him all about when you got drunk at his graduation party.”

Robin finally, _finally_ , puts down his paper. “That might be a good idea.”

“ _Robin_ ,” Harry whines. He’s past petulant and moved onto annoyed.

“Look, Harry,” Anne says. Her voice dropping an octave, the tell-tale sign that she’s about to tell him something he most definitely does not want to hear. “You can go out with Zayn and forget about any afterschool activities you have planned for the next week, or you can invite him to supper and help me with the ham.”

It takes everything Harry has in him not to stomp his foot. “What time should I tell him to come over?”

“Tell him five thirty,” Anne smiles.

+

Harry stands from the bed and tries not to make the cramp in his thighs too obvious. He’s doing a spectacularly horrendous job of it with the waddle in his walk. Zayn chucks a pillow at his back, flushed and pleased with come cooling on his stomach, just the way Harry had left him.

“I have a feeling this is going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow,” Harry complains, reaching for his pants.

“You’re the one who wanted to have sex.”

Harry shoots him a glare over his shoulder. “Well I’m sorry I thought it would be more romantic to bottom for my first time.”

Zayn stifles a laugh into his elbow pit. It’s a very nice elbow pit. Harry had spent the better half of an hour yesterday trying to get a love bite to bloom there.

“I warned you.”

“I know, I know.” Harry snaps the elastic of his boxers against his waist. “Are you sure no one else is home right now?”

“They’re at the cinema,” Zayn reminds him. “Get me a washcloth, will you?”

“Yes, your highness.” Harry bows at Zayn before exiting the room, leaving the door wide open in his wait.

He taps his toes as he waits for the water to warm before running a cloth underneath. He wipes at the sweat at his happy trail and runs it along the inside of his thighs. He plucks his boxers down to wipe any lube residue around his arse. When he’s satisfied with a job well done, he rewets it for Zayn.

“Took you ages,” Zayn teases. He’s got black boxers with the Batman logo all over them on.

“Was cleaning,” Harry explains. He straddles Zayn’s thighs and ignores the ache in his arse. “Someone made a mess.”

“It wasn’t a mess.” Zayn takes the washcloth from Harry’s hands and kisses the top of his hand.

Once he’s cleaned himself up he rolls them until they’re facing each other in his small bed. If Harry didn’t know how much Zayn cared about him, he might be bothered about his matted curls and sweaty face. His breath probably smells a bit sour and he should have washed under his arms, but.

“How was it?”

“I thought it went well.” Harry threads his fingers through Zayn’s. “Best I ever had.”

“Better than a wank?”

“Well,” Harry trails off, looking into the distance. “I’m kidding,” Harry squeals loudly when Zayn detangles their hands and pinches his side. “It was good. I fancy a cuddle now, I think.”

“What do you call this?” Zayn gestures between the two of them.

“Facing each other in bed.”

Rolling his eyes, Zayn shuffles closer and slips a foot between Harry’s calves. “Better?”

“Almost,” Harry nods. He kisses Zayn softly. It turns heated quickly though, much faster than he was anticipating. If Harry shifts a certain way, he can still feel how open he is. It’s strange, but not unwelcomed.

Harry slots a leg between Zayn’s and rolls a bit so he’s laying half on top of him. It’s similar to how Harry had proposed they have sex – a week ago in the dark when Harry was already four minutes past curfew. He nibbled on Zayn’s lip, rolled his hips against Zayn’s thigh as he jacked him off and whispered about how he wanted to get fucked. Zayn had sputtered a profanity and promptly came all over Harry’s hand.

Now, Zayn kisses him like he’s hungry, all teeth and tongue in the most satisfying balance. Harry hadn’t thought teeth had any business in kisses and blowjobs, but Zayn changed his mind about that within the first few weeks of dating.

“How was it for you?” Harry asks.

“Great, I think.” Zayn runs his knuckles down Harry’s back. He dips his fingers down the back of Harry’s pants and nudges at Harry’s hole. “A bit quick, but,” Zayn shrugs as he nudges his nose against Harry’s cheek. “Fuck, it was so good.”

“Yeah?” A pleased shiver runs down Harry’s spin. He feels excited and aroused all over again, filling up against Zayn’s thigh. The pain had been as sharp as he had thought it would be, but Zayn was gentle and patient. He didn’t laugh at Harry’s discomfort nor did he try to rush Harry.

Over all, it was a lovely experience that Harry would very much like to repeat as soon as possible. It was nothing like the horror story his mate Alice had told him it would be. He remembers when she came home from Ibiza in mid-August with stories about having sex on the beach with hot lifeguards. Harry had been mildly jealous of her stories about alcohol and drugs and sex until she told him what it was really like. Then again, he supposes she wasn’t doing anal. And it wasn’t with Zayn, which is the most important part, now that he thinks about it.

“You okay?” Zayn asks, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

His eyes are heavy and it looks like a struggle for him to keep his eyes open. Harry wonders how long Zayn had been watching him for.

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

Zayn laughs and sweeps a hand through his sweaty hair. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Harry grins. He gets the same swoop of butterflies he had when Zayn was undressing him; mildly exposed, ultimately safe. “When did you say your family was coming home again?”

“Nine? Might be able to get a kip in.”

Harry hums, considering how crass he wants to be with his proposal. “I was thinking you could fuck me instead.”

He didn’t think Zayn could move that fast.

+

Weeks pass in a blur of shitty action movies and doing coursework. They spend more time than not fooling around before each other’s parents come home and there are more than a few close calls with Zayn’s sisters nearly walking in on them. Harry burns his lips on Zayn’s mum’s cooking twice a week and Zayn tries to talk football with Robin every Thursday. Zayn’s scrabble score has been steadily increasing and if Harry purposefully spells weak words, then that’s his business only.

“What’re you doing Saturday?” Zayn asks, gentle fingers brushing Harry’s fringe away.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. He glances around the bakery and leans over the counter a bit more. “Might have a hot date with my boyfriend, might have a sad wank if he’s busy.”

Zayn retracts his hand and hooks his fingers around the handle of his mug. “You’re an idiot.”

“Why? What are you doing Saturday?” A blond man walks into the shop, but Harry makes no move to help him. He slides out of the way and lets his co-worker greet him.

“It’s one of my cousin’s birthdays.”

“It’s always one of your cousin’s birthdays,” Harry teases.

“Shut up.” Zayn pours twice as much sugar into his mug as he normally does. He doesn’t bother to stir it around. “He’s my favourite cousin, so.”

“Is this Jawaad?”

Zayn licks his lips and smiles that private smile – the one where he’s thrilled Harry’s remembered something flippant he’s told him. “Yeah. He’s turning thirteen.”

“Big year,” Harry laughs.

“Mhmm.” Zayn grabs a stir stick and watches his coffee turn from black to golden with the amount of milk he’s put in it. His shoulders are tense, eyes carefully downcast. “It’s in Bradford though and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”

“Bradford’s like, hours away.”

“It’s less than two,” Zayn corrects. “You can say no.”

“No, I want to come. I just – I work until half two. We wouldn’t get there until five and then-”

“It’s fine, Haz.” Zayn rushes to say. “I don’t expect you to drop everything on two days’ notice.”

“I wish I could come.”

When Zayn still doesn’t say anything Harry leans across the counter and snags Zayn’s hand. He nearly sends the mug of coffee flying, but Zayn’s other hand is there to steady it.

“I really appreciate the invitation, though.”

“Of course. You’re my first proper boyfriend; I’ve got to show you off.”

“I am quite handsome, aren’t I?” Harry fluffs his hair under his hairnet. “And charming.”

“A proper Prince Charming,” Zayn snorts. “I’ll be gone all weekend then – since you’re not coming.”

They haven’t spent a weekend apart since they started dating. If Harry’s not at Zayn’s getting his hair done by his sisters, or if Zayn’s not sprawled out on Harry’s bed sketching in his notebook, they’re going to the cinema, walking around the park, or nibbling on scones from Harry’s work.

Harry doesn’t know how he’ll occupy his time without Zayn, but he’s sure he can find something to do. Maybe. He can call Jonny to learn more guitar or he might be able to call Alice to catch up. If those plans fail maybe he’ll finally go out and take some photographs now that the flowers have begun to bloom.

“When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll stay through Saturday and come back on Sunday probably.”

“Will you have time to get all your coursework done?” Harry hopes Zayn can read between the lines. They haven’t spent four days apart since they started dating and as ridiculous as it sounds, Harry doesn’t quite fancy making that a regular habit.

“Of course,” Zayn sighs. “Even if I don’t finish it, you can come over Monday. Mum’s making samosas.”

Harry grins wide. He brings Zayn’s knuckles to his lips in a quick kiss, eyes sparkling.

+

Easter hols is a month of revision, Gemma’s constant presence, and family obligations.

It feels like there are a million and one people for Harry to visit with and on top of extra shifts at the bakery, he can’t seem to squeeze in time to see Zayn. His notes for his AS levels are complete shit and his room is so messy he has a breakdown trying to find a pair of clean boxers.

Harry’s still wiping the tears of frustration from his cheeks when he hears a knock on his door. He barely croaks out a meek pleasantry before Gemma’s pushing the door open.

“You alright?” She asks. Her hair’s much longer than it was during Christmas and she has bright pink heart earrings in.

“No,” Harry pouts. He tugs a random shirt on – one of Zayn’s Superman tees – and flops onto his bed next to his sister. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“You think?” She laughs. “I’ve barely seen you.”

Harry frowns and sits up against his headboard. “I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t meant to make you feel bad,” Gemma explains. “You just seemed stressed is all. You’re supposed to be relaxing. You’re on hols. You should be drinking with your mates and shagging your fit boyfriend.”

“Ugh,” Harry cringes, “please don’t call my boyfriend fit and talk about us shagging in the same sentence.”

“It’s a compliment.” Gemma kicks Harry’s ankle and faces him properly. “You seem happy though. That’s nice.”

“I am. Everything is just going really, really great,” Harry confesses.

“What’s going to happen when he finishes sixth?”

Harry sits up and lets his phone drop from his hand to his duvet. “We’re staying together.”

“Did you already talk to him?” Gemma asks. She spreads her legs out in front of her and steals his pillow for behind her back. “That was mature of you, H.”

“No, we,” Harry hesitates. He could have brought up university and their plans to Zayn on multiple occasions. It’s just that every time he tried to his tongue would swell and his heartrate would jackrabbit. Trisha would talk about applications to Zayn, but it would always lead to Zayn telling her not to worry as he dragged Harry up to his room and kissed him until he forgot what he was going to say. “Not yet.”

“Well is he going to Manchester?” Gemma pushes. “That’s not too far. You could make weekend trips.”

“He doesn’t like Manchester. He says it’s where all the rejected London-ers settle.” Harry recalls the conversation fondly. It had been when they drove into the city to people watch and Zayn whispered made-up stories about everyone who passed them.

“Sounds a bit pretentious.” Gemma wrinkles her nose up. “Do you know where he wants to go?”

“Um… maybe Bradford? That’s where he’s from.”

“That’s a ways away. Mum won’t let you take the train every weekend to see him, y’know.”

“I know, Gem.” Harry tucks his knees into his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “It just hasn’t come up. I’m not sure he even knows what he wants to do.”

Gemma, thankfully, doesn’t press the issue any further. Instead, she ruffles a hand through Harry’s curls until he’s smiling slightly. “I just want to look out for you.”

“I know.”

“He’s your first boyfriend and-” she cuts herself off and grins at him instead. “If he’s important to you, you should talk to him about it.”

“I will. I-”

They’re interrupted by Harry’s phone lighting up. The chorus of Champagne Supernova starts up and Harry immediately reaches for it.

“You’re a nerd,” Gemma accuses, but she gets up off the bed when she sees Zayn’s display picture on Harry’s screen. “Answer that, I’ll be playing with Dusty in the den when you’re done.”

Harry can’t shake the feeling of being scolded as he swipes the screen to answer the call.

+

When Harry agreed to wait for Zayn after school on Thursday, he had not imagined that Zayn would talk to his teacher for over ten minutes.

He’s trying not to check his phone every two seconds and he’s trying not to make irritated huffing sounds, but he’s fairly certain that the bored expression on his face couldn’t be altered even if he tried. It’s just that Mr. Watchorn is young and tall and pretty bloody fit. His hair is shaggy and pants tight; he wears a fedora every Friday and always has some philosophical compliment to give to each student’s work. Harry’s never had him, but he’s heard Zayn talk about him often enough.

They should be at Harry’s house right now, optimizing the hour and a half they have until Harry’s mum comes home. He’s heard Zayn laugh half a dozen times, but everything else is just mumbling from the other side of the doorway. Harry glances at his phone and wonders when an appropriate time to knock on the door and interrupt them will be.

“Alright, Zayn. I think that about covers everything for your piece.” Harry rolls his eyes at the teacher’s strong Irish accent and keeps scrolling his phone. “Keep it up and – oh, hello.”

Harry whips his head up to see Zayn and Mr. Watchorn standing in front of him.

“I’m just heading out,” Mr. Watchorn explains to him. “Do I have a meeting with you?”

“No,” Zayn inserts for him. He swings an arm around Harry’s shoulders and smiles at him happily. Butterflies erupt in Harry’s stomach, dispelling any jealousy and ill-feelings. “This is Harry, my boyfriend.”

“Of course! Your muse.” Mr. Watchorn shares a knowing look with Zayn. “You must be so proud of him.”

Harry doesn’t realize that he’s being addressed until he catches Mr. Watchorn’s eye. “Oh, yes. Zayn’s a great artist.”

“He certainly has potential. I can’t wait to see what else he can create up in Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh?” Harry repeats. He turns to Zayn only to find him staring at his shoes. “Is there some kind of student exhibit?”

Zayn stared at the scuffed up linoleum beneath their shoes and mumbles, “I got into uni there, Harry.”

“You didn’t just get in you nearly have a full scholarship!” Mr. Watchorn laughs. “Don’t be modest!”

“Yeah, he’s always so modest.” Harry chirps. Hurt and confusion washes over him; he’s sure the sound of his heart cracking can be heard loudly. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. My mum will be home any minute and I’ve got to pop ‘round the shops first.”

“Of course, of course! It was lovely meeting you, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow, Zayn.”

Harry doesn’t stick around to watch Mr. Watchorn slink back into his office. Instead, he turns his back and stomps away as civilly as he can manage while trying not to make a scene in front of a gaggle of year nines.

“Harry, wait. Harry!”

Harry aggressively pushes the door open and jogs down the front steps of their school. He walks briskly, ignoring the sound of his boyfriend’s boots on the pavement behind him.

“Harry, can you stop-”

Harry whirls around to find Zayn much closer than he thought he would be. “What?”

Zayn looks like a kicked puppy when he mumbles, “I was going to tell you.”

“Oh my God, could you sound any more like a cliché?” Harry huffs. “When were you going to tell me? After your A levels or when you’re halfway to Scotland?”

“Can you keep your voice down?” Zayn reprimands, glancing behind himself at the school.

“I can do you one better and keep my presence down,” Harry retorts.

“Oh real mature, Harry.”

Harry resists sticking his tongue out at Zayn, choosing to turn around and make his way off the grounds instead. A million scenarios of Zayn studying in Scotland flash before him. He imagines Zayn partying in nightclubs and studying in library lounges. He can picture Zayn with his glasses and a low slung beanie painting late in a studio while his friends smoke out of homemade ceramic bongs and compliment his shading.

“Harry, can you wait a minute?”

A group of rugby players are doing a warm up laps around the field they’re walking through.

“Can we talk about this in private?” Harry asks, stopping fast. He feels exposed. “We can talk until my mum comes home,” he offers.

The walk home is tense. After the second time Zayn attempts to ask Harry about his day, he gives up and falls into step half a foot behind Harry instead. Harry’s mechanical as he unlocks the front door and greets Dusty with an obligatory head scratch. Zayn’s rucksack thuds to the floor once the door’s been locked behind him.

Instead of going to the kitchen like he normally would, Harry leads them up the stairs to his bedroom. Although no one’s home it seems more appropriate to have the conversation in a secluded space. God forbid his mother comes home early to see them fighting.

Well, not fighting necessarily. They’re not even talking to each other right now.

Harry’s hands begin to sweat; fingers slipping on the lock he can’t seem to grip.

“Harry,” Zayn says lowly, garnering his attention. “I was going to tell you.”

“When did you find out?” Harry asks.

“Harry-”

“I was going to ask you when you were going to tell me,” Harry starts, “but I don’t think you were ever going to.”

Zayn’s jaw sets as he glowers at Harry. “I was going to tell you. Don’t be an idiot.”

“An idiot?” Harry says, taken aback. “Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Zayn cuts him off abruptly. He falls onto Harry’s bed arse first, bouncing with the springs. “I didn’t even apply. Eoghan submitted it for me because he’s alumni.”

“Eoghan,” Harry all but spits, rolling his eyes.

“He put in a good word for me, Harry. What was I supposed to do? Reject him right on the spot?”

“You could have told me you knew about it!”

“I found out last week. I haven’t even told my parents yet.” Zayn looks more frustrated than angry now. Even Harry’s blood has gone from boiling to simmering. He kicks off his shoes and shoves them under his desk.

“So what? You’re going to Edinburgh now?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’m still looking into schools here.”

Harry resists the urge to pull at the ends of his hair. “Here as in Cheshire or here as in England?”

“England, Harry.” Zayn scrubs his hands over his face and shrugs out of his hoodie.

“Where in England?” When Zayn doesn’t respond, Harry pushes him. “Did you apply for Bradford?”

“Of course I did,” Zayn snaps.

Harry feels sick to his stomach. Gemma’s words loop in his mind, wrapping around his brain until he has a headache at the thought of her being right.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Why are you surprised?” Zayn’s shoulders are nearly up to his ears, his back hunched and his hands folded up in his lap. “That’s where I’m from. That’s my home!”

“So what?” Harry says, more angrily than intended. “What was supposed to happen with me?”

“I don’t know! I just applied.”

“Did you not think of me?”

Zayn stands abruptly, tugging his shirt self-consciously down his torso. “I applied in the beginning of February, Harry. We had just started dating and I wasn’t exactly thinking about the kid I made out with when I was sending out applications.”

“The kid-” Harry scoffs and clenches his hands into fists. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not being an asshole. You’re making me into a villain because you don’t like the plans I made for my future.”

“Because you’re making them without me!”

“Am I supposed to consult you on everything I do?”

Harry’s heart tears like a papercut in a balloon. It deflates instantly – sadness and anger tearing at the pieces. Harry takes a step back from Zayn.

“We’ve been dating for three months.” Harry reminds him. “Sorry that I expected you to bring up university instead of pushing it onto you.”

Zayn’s face closes off and he looks as steely as he does when he tells Safaa that she has to go to her room so Harry and him can watch the telly.

“Look, Harry. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“When are we going to talk about it then?” Harry asks. “You already cancelled our date for Saturday.”

Even when he rubs his temples in agitation, Zayn still looks unfairly beautiful. “You know I have to watch my sisters because Don’s got a new job.”

“I told you I could watch them with you-”

“And my aunts are over the entire weekend for some wedding for a cousin-”

“You can stay at mine if-”

“We don’t have to do everything together! God can you stop being such a fucking leech?” Zayn cuts him off. He sighs as soon as he says it, running his hands through his hair and deflating the quiff. “Dammit. Harry, I-”

“Don’t.” Harry says, stepping back when Zayn approaches him. Tears sting his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at his grey socks. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now.”

“I didn’t mean it. You’re not-”

“We’re both angry. We’ll say things we don’t mean to say if we keep talking,” Harry reasons.

“You’re right, yeah.” Zayn hesitates for half a second before grabbing his hoodie and walking past Harry and to the bedroom door. Despite wanting to follow him, Harry sits in the same spot that Zayn had been sitting in and watches him go.

+

“Harry dear, do you realize you’ve just added orange zest to the lemon poppy seed muffins?”

Harry stops abruptly at Barbara’s words. He stares first at the offending citrus and second at the ruined batter.

“Um,” Harry glances at Barbara’s inquisitive face before blushing. That’s at least three dozen muffins ruined. “Shit.”

“We can just have orange poppy seed for the day, then.” She pats Harry’s arm, offering him a warm smile. “When you’re done with that, why don’t you start the icing for the cinnamon rolls?”

Harry opens his mouth to protest – it’s nearly 9 in the morning, he should be joining Ruby up front – but exhaustion and embarrassment overtake him. He nods sheepishly, ducking his head again.

After that, Harry’s distracted all day. He can’t seem to get the right consistency for the icing. The icing sugar clumps up no matter how many times he runs it through the sieve and the vanilla extract comes out much quicker than he had anticipated. Barbara tries to distract him by asking him to make some oatmeal raisin cookies, but he accidentally grabs the dried cranberries instead.

She keeps giving him sad smiles and rubbing his back whenever he makes a mistake. He spills half a jar of nutmeg onto the floor and when he tries to sweep it up the handle detaches from the bristles. He sets the temperature too low for the biscotti and when Ruby’s leaving for the day, she points out that he has a massive stain of icing on his apron that looks like dried come.

All in all, it’s a terrible day and Harry wants nothing more than to take a shower and crawl into bed. He can’t even text Zayn about it because they’ve not been speaking since the incident after school on Thursday. He was snappy when his mum came home and begged off going to the grocery store with Robin last night.

Harry drags his feet through the front room, yelling a greeting to his mum as he passes the living room. He should have expected for her to trail after him.

“Hi poppet. How was work?”

Harry fills a cup with tap water and sighs heavily. Every bone in his body feels achy. “It was fine. A bit long.”

“Yeah?” Anne pulls out a kitchen chair and sits in it; her universal sign that she wants to have some sort of serious discussion. It’s where her and Des explained that they were getting a divorce, where she rallied them to tell them that their grandpa was sick, where she told them about her date with Robin, where she fed them cake when Gemma got into university, and where she made Harry sit while she gave him sexual education books for gay teens. “You did stay at work rather long.”

“I kept messing things up. I figured I would stay and help clean it all up.”

“Are things okay with you and Zayn?” Anne worries her bottom lip and pulls out a chair for him to sit in.

“Um, not really.” Harry folds his arms over his chest defensively. Anne’s eyes soften and she pushes the bowl of fruit closer to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry buries his head in his arms and takes a deep breath. He smells like sugar and cinnamon and faintly of sweat. Usually, he would hate to divulge the details of his relationship to anyone else. Jonny teases him about it enough as it is and Gemma just makes gagging sounds whenever they’re on Skype and Zayn texts him. His mum sends him knowing little smirks when he sneaks home half past curfew and Robin always jokes about how Harry spends more time with Zayn than his own family.

“He got a full scholarship to Edinburgh’s art school.”

Anne gasps, eyes dancing happily. “That’s unheard of! Oh, Trisha must be so proud.”

“Zayn hasn’t told her yet.”

“Why not?” Anne’s eyebrows furrow.

Discomfort itches under Harry’s skin. It’s like when he was a kid and would get eaten alive by mosquitos in the forest. His mum would cover him in anti-itch lotion and demand that Harry stay still as it dried. Anne would watch him like a hawk and it made Harry feel trapped, unable to escape. “His teacher submitted a portfolio, but Zayn applied to Bradford.”

“Has he gotten in?”

“I don’t know.” Harry grabs a banana from the bowl to occupy his hands.

“Bradford’s a good school though, isn’t it?”

“It’s _far_ ,” Harry spells out. “He didn’t even tell me he was applying to universities.”

Anne sits up straighter at Harry’s minute outburst. “What did you think he was going to do?” Harry shrugs, focusing on peeling his banana. “Did you even talk about your future?”

“We had a row,” Harry explains. “His teacher told me Zayn got into school and when I asked Zayn about it, he said that we didn’t have to do everything together and we haven’t talked since.”

“Did you see him at school?”

“Jonny and I went to Nandos.”

Anne sighs and folds a leg under her seat. “Have you tried to talk to him?” When Harry shakes his head Anne sighs louder. “Has he tried to talk to you?”

“He messaged me on Friday asking if I was free.”

“And you said?”

“That I had work at 8 in the morning – he texted me at 10!” Harry scrambles to add at Anne’s disbelieving face.

“You’ve stayed out until 1 and still made it to your shift on time,” Anne reminds him. “But tell me why you were so hurt by him not telling you this.”

Harry taps his foot against the tiles. He doesn’t feel like he’s being as scolded as before, but he still feels like there isn’t a right answer. “Because he didn’t think to talk to me about it.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“You sound like a therapist, mum.” Harry’s joke falls flat. “I got mad because Bradford is far, but Edinburgh is farther. And he didn’t even tell me if he was going to uni or if he was taking a gap year. I assumed he was going to either stay here or take a gap year because this is where his family lives and I know they can’t afford for him to go somewhere expensive.” Harry folds his banana peel in half.

“That all sounds rational.”

“Plus,” Harry says unable to stop himself. “He didn’t even think to mention any of this to me. We’ve been dating for three months and he never thought that I was important enough to discuss this with.”

“Do you think he’s scared? Whether he goes to Edinburgh or Bradford, it’s away from his family and from you. That can be overwhelming to think about when he’s already thinking about passing his A levels.”

“Then he should have talked to me,” Harry argues.

“He should have,” Anne agrees. “Maybe you should go ‘round his tonight?”

“He’s babysitting.”

“How about tomorrow after work? You work until half noon?”

“I have homework,” Harry excuses. He takes one look at his mum’s face before giving in. “I could go though. I guess.”

“You do that.” Anne gets up and kisses Harry soundly on his forehead. “Robin and I are going to the cinema after dinner, did you want to come?”

“No thanks. I think I just want to sit here and mope.”

Anne wags her finger at him, but finally leaves him alone after that.

He lugs himself up the stairs and forces himself into a bath. The water is hot and the bubbles are sparkly. He smells like vanilla and lavender by the time his skin wrinkles and it’s time to rinse it all off. He begs off dinner and gets it served to him in his room. It’s only seven and there’s plenty of time to do something with his night, he puts on his saddest John Mayer playlist and buries himself in his own misery.

His mum and Robin come in to say their goodbyes before the front door shuts and their car engine fades. Dusty creeps into his room when his playlist is just beginning to repeat itself. He closes his eyes and curls around his cat, comforted by his never-ending warmth.

A knock on the front door startles him out of slumber.

Harry hadn’t even realized that he was sleeping until he jerks awake. Dusty scampers off his bed in search of a hiding spot. Pulling on a pair of jogging bottoms, Harry rubs his tired eyes and makes his way to the door. He hadn’t checked the time, but he knows his parents aren’t due back for another few hours.

It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is when Harry pulls the door open to see Zayn on the other side.

“Hey,” Zayn mumbles, small and unsure.

“Hi.” Harry racks his brain for anything else to say, but it all falls flat. “Wanna come in?”

“Are you home alone?”

Harry nods and steps aside. “Mum and Robin are at a film.”

Zayn dips his head in thanks, eyes grazing over Harry’s bare torso. In any other instance it would have sparks shooting up his spine, but now Harry just feels cold and exposed. He shuts the door quickly behind Zayn, leading the way to his bedroom.

With each stair Harry climbs, his heart soars a little higher. The past 48 hours gave him a lot of time to come up with scenarios of what Zayn could be doing without him; skateboarding, smoking weed, playing video games, or hanging out with his friends who haven’t quite welcomed Harry into their exclusive group. Harry spent all of yesterday avoiding the corridors he knows Zayn normally frequents and he cajoled Jonny into going for food after school which ensured he wouldn’t run into Zayn. Nervous of any encounter being awkward, Harry had taken every precautionary measure to avoid Zayn, but having him here now is enough to get Harry’s hands sweating.

“So,” Zayn starts, trailing off as he looks around Harry’s room. He takes a few more steps in before bending over and untying his shoes. Harry grabs a shirt off his desk chair and tugs it over his head.

He watches Zayn sit on his rumpled bed, leaning against the wall to get comfortable. Harry lingers in his spot for a couple painfully silent seconds until he starts to doubt that Zayn’s going to say anything.

“Aren’t you supposed to be babysitting?”

“I gave Wali a tenner and left her in charge. But um,” Zayn scratches at the hair on his chin, “I think we should talk properly.”

“Same,” Harry agrees.

“Can you come sit with me or at least move closer?”

Harry takes quick steps to sit against his headboard. He criss-crosses his legs and fiddles with the drawstring of his joggers.

“You’re not a leech,” Zayn starts.

Harry huffs and folds his arms over his chest, but the hurt is still there – small and ugly.

“It’s okay,” Harry says instinctively.

“It’s not really, but um,” Zayn licks his lips. They’re distractingly pink and Harry hasn’t kissed them since they departed on Thursday after lunch. “I don’t want you thinking that you’re not important to me because you are. You’re the first boyfriend I’ve had and I forget I have to tell you things.”

“I don’t want to make you tell me anything you don’t want to,” Harry says tucking his chin into his chest.

“That’s not what I mean.” Zayn picks at a hole in his jeans. “When we moved here, I just wanted to get through sixth and go back to Bradford as soon as possible and that was still my plan when we met.”

Harry lifts his gaze to glare at him.

“But you changed that! I know it was shitty of me, but it’s not like I knew how serious we were going to be. And we are serious, Harry. Because you’ve met my parents and Skyped with some of my cousins and - that’s really fucking scary because I didn’t plan for any of it.” Zayn closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “And then Eoghan told me he submitted my portfolio to Edinburgh and I freaked out y'know? Because that’s so much farther than I planned to go.”

Harry nods along although Zayn can’t see him. “Yeah,” he supplies rather unhelpfully.

“It’s a full scholarship Harry. Universities here, they don’t offer that.”

“I know.”

Zayn blinks his eyes open, eyelashes nearly touching his eyebrows. “Can you say something, please?”

“What do you want me to say?” Harry instantly regrets the snappy nature of his tone, but it’s out there now.

“That you’re proud of me? That you want us to work?”

“Of course I’m happy for you! It’s amazing Zayn, people would kill to get a full scholarship and you deserve it.”

“But?”

Harry tries not to sound like a bratty trust fund kid when he whines, “But you’re leaving me behind!”

“It’s not intentional,” Zayn argues.

“It’s still happening. Maybe it’s our fault for avoiding it so much, but I didn’t think our relationship had an expiration date.”

Zayn glowers at him immediately. “It doesn’t have to.”

“So you just want me to sit here while you have the time of your life at uni?”

“We’ll figure it out! I don’t even know where I’m going, but I want to be together.” Zayn flops his hand against the bed in frustration. “I still want to go to prom together and I want us to road trip to Wales like we planned.”

“So do I.” Harry admits. “I don’t want to break up.”

Zayn finally cracks a smile, small as it may be. “Well, fuck, me neither.”

Harry laughs; the bubble of anxiety bursting.

+

Despite their best efforts, things don’t quite return back to normal between Zayn and Harry. There seems to be a dark cloud hovering over their relationship. They don’t acknowledge it, but Harry knows that Zayn can feel it just as well as him. They still go on dates, still plan for the summer, and still study together whenever they can. Zayn comes to watch Jonny teach Harry guitar and Harry sits in the art studio while Zayn sketches.

In the third week of May, when Harry’s just finished his first exam, Zayn buys him lunch and tells him he’s gotten a provisional offer from Bradford. Harry bites into his sandwich, hoping the ham and cheese and thick cut bread can turn his grimace into a smile. He squeezes Zayn’s hand across the table and tells him how proud he is, how talented Zayn is, and how anyone would be lucky to have Zayn at their school. They fuck as soon as they get to Zayn’s, ignoring the fact that all three sisters are home and they probably shouldn’t be so reckless. Harry leaves as soon as it’s done, handing Zayn a washcloth with a kiss before he goes home to shower.

He cries quietly while scrubbing at his skin. The inevitable is happening and he’s the worst mixture of guilty and proud. Zayn’s a phenomenal artist who deserves to be recognized for his talent, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Harry to know that Zayn’s going to leave him – leave them – behind.

Throughout their exams, Harry’s removed. He leaves his phone on silent and studies by himself in the garden. He tells Zayn’s he’s just trying to get good marks on his AS levels so the next year is easier, but there’s wariness in Zayn’s nods. Anne keeps giving him worried frowns when he takes his dinner up to his room to eat. The worst part is that Harry really likes Zayn. He might even love him, but the giddiness is tainted by the knowledge that in a few short months, it will all be over.

When they’re done their exams, they go to the pub to celebrate. Zayn buys them beer and they avoid the waitress’s flirtations in favour of flirting with each other. They talk about their colour scheme ideas for prom and how Zayn’s dad is letting him rent a car so they can get a bit drunk. Before Harry realizes it, prom actually arrives. He doesn’t remember a lot from that night, but he remembers smiles and laughter and twirling around the dance floor with his boyfriend. He remembers feeling so happy and free that he had forgotten about Zayn’s university prospects until someone had asked them if Zayn was coming home for Harry’s prom the following year. When he wakes up in bed he’s got a camera full of pictures, half a bottle of cheap champagne on the bedside table, and his tie half undone around his neck, and a heavy feeling in his chest again.

Summer progresses quickly after that.

They go to bonfires and open mic nights, indulge in late night drives to get each other off while their families sleep. They chase sunrises and smoke in their mate’s basements. Harry watches Zayn graffiti his tag all over town. But with each kiss and each touch, each text and each call, there’s a harrowing feeling etched in Harry’s bones. His heart hasn’t broken, tears haven’t fallen, but each night Harry goes to bed wondering how long he can keep feeling this way.

They end up doing a trip to Birmingham instead of Wales. It’s just a day trip since Zayn has been working at the library full time and has hardly had any days off. It’s there that Zayn tells Harry he’s decided to go to Edinburgh if he gets a formal acceptance. The offer was too good to pass up and his family agrees that it will lift much of the financial strain. Harry excuses himself to the bathroom to cry. He turns on the tap as well as the shower and when he comes out he kisses Zayn soundly on the lips before starting to remove his clothes.

As Zayn fucks him, Harry thinks about the time Zayn had called him selfish all those months ago – he knows what he has to do.

+

Inevitably, things come to a head a week after they get their exam results.

Since their day trip to Birmingham Harry’s been steadily ignoring Zayn’s messages to hang out. It’s been a week full of Harry being stressed and snappy, unable to sleep and irritable at work. It had started by Harry trying to see if they could work without constant communication. If Zayn’s going to be four hours away, he won’t always have time to answer Harry’s text as soon as he gets them. So Harry reasons that it’s a good way to test their relationship. However, Harry’s foul mood has been fueled even more by their lack of interaction. It’s only been a week and Harry’s going crazy without Zayn. Torn between wanting to talk and wanting to be stubborn, Harry feels like a barbell has been laid across his chest every minute of the day.

Granted, he’s been working more at the bakery and he knows that Zayn’s been busy with his family. The one time they went to grab pizza together, Zayn told Harry that he got a formal acceptance to Edinburgh and that’s where he’s decided to go. Something ugly and sad had settled in his chest and he still hasn’t figured out how to lift it.

The thought of being left in Holmes Chapel, while Zayn lives it up in Edinburgh is too much to bear. He’s hardly slept a wink – too worried about the last few weeks they’ll have together – and his mood has gone from bad to worse with the announcement that Gemma’s moving in with her boyfriend for the upcoming school year.

So when Zayn invites Harry to the park, he can’t even pretend like he’s not looking for an excuse to get out of the house.

Zayn greets him with a kiss like always, tucking his fingers into Harry’s belt loops and pulling him in. Harry melts easily, fisting his fingers into the bottom of Zayn’s shirt.

“Hey,” Zayn grins when they final separate.

“Hi.” Harry buries his face in Zayn’s neck and inhales. God, he’s going to miss the way he smells. He’s going to miss the way Zayn’s body fits against his and the absentminded way Zayn’s nails scratching along the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry wants to ask about Zayn’s marks. He wants to ask how he’s been the past couple of days because Harry gets a sudden wave of regret for blatantly ignoring his boyfriend, but when he opens his mouth all he can say is, “I can’t do this.”

Zayn reacts jerkily, pulling away with his body while keeping his hands anchored to Harry’s clothes.

Harry steps back, stumbling over a rock in his haste. Of course, Zayn catches him like always. It’s annoying really.

“Zayn, I can’t-” Harry shakes his head and wishes they weren’t in a public park. “Let go. Please.”

Zayn does instantly, taking his own steps back as well. “What are you saying?”

“I want to break up.” The words burn his throat like a shot of absinthe.

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” Harry insists. His eyes sting against his will. He can’t make himself look at Zayn. “It’s too hard.”

“Too-” Zayn stares at him, shocked before it gives way to anger. “I’m the one moving away!” Zayn argues. “What the fuck do you mean it’s too hard?”

Distantly, Harry knows there are families in the park, attempting to enjoy a sunny afternoon.

“It’s never going to work. This,” he gestures between him and Zayn. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?” When Harry just shakes his head, staring at his scuffed up Converse, Zayn lifts Harry’s chin for him. “If you’re breaking up with me, tell me why.”

Zayn’s steely. Harry can’t blame him.

“I can’t do it.” Harry hiccups over his emotions. He refuses to cry, but he can feel the tears pushing at the backs of his eyes.

Images of Harry lying in bed, waiting for his phone to light up with a text from his long-distance boyfriend have been playing on his mind for ages. No matter how many times he tries to fantasize about weekend trips and quick romps in university pub toilets, the isolation always plagues his visions.

“You’re being selfish,” Zayn tells him. “You’re being such an arsehole.”

“I know.”

“I make you happy.” Zayn is fierce, uncontrolled. He looks so fucking angry that Harry has no idea how to comfort him. This is more than him recounting the bullies he dealt with in school, more than Zayn upset about an unfair grade. “I make you so happy.”

“I know,” Harry agrees. He bites his bottom lip and dips his head again. His curls curtain his eyes and he blinks rapidly to stave off crying.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I can’t be left behind!”

Zayn scoffs and scuffs his heel into the grass. “Think about someone other than your bloody self for once, Harry. I’m leaving my parents, my sisters, and my boyfriend behind. But it turns out that he couldn’t give two shits about my feelings on the matter because he’s already decided what’s best for our relationship!”

“I’m sorry!” Harry bursts.

“You’re not,” Zayn accuses. Then quieter, more seriously, he glowers and says, “You’re a coward Harry.”

Harry wipes at the angry tears on his cheeks. “Maybe I am, but I’m trying to save us from heartbreak.”

“Well, you’re too late for that!” Zayn sniffs heavily and shakes his head. “God, I knew this was going to happen and I still tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Harry stands here, stunned. Zayn looks like a statue; perfect and ready to fight.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Zayn spits. “Don’t talk to me again.”

+

The day before Zayn leaves for Edinburgh, Harry walks to his house.

It’s half seven and the sun’s barely risen, but Harry drags his arse out of bed and puts on his best jeans and the green sweater he knows Zayn loves.

If Zayn’s surprised to see him there, he doesn’t say anything about it. He looks sleep rumpled in his black boxers, his hair astray, and stubble on his chin. But Zayn just tucks his hand in Harry’s and drags him up to his room.

They undress each other slowly, kissing every inch of skin and savouring every touch. The house is silent around them and there’s an unspoken agreement not to say anything in fear of breaking the intimacy of the moment. Harry takes his time opening Zayn up. With his mouth and his fingers, he makes Zayn’s knees shake, toes curl, and fingers clench until he’s whispering for Harry to hurry up.

Later, Harry allows himself to curl up in Zayn’s chest and cry. Zayn hushes him and makes empty promises to stay in touch, but they both know it will be better if they don’t. He presses kisses into Harry’s hair and tweaks his extra nipples just to make him laugh. The sun hangs higher in the sky and the pitter-patter of Malik girls can be heard throughout the house by the time Harry feels brave enough to speak.

“Do you think if we had met as different people under different circumstances, we could have made it?”

“Like in an alternate universe?”

“Maybe,” Harry wonders. “If I was an actor and you were a singer or something.”

Zayn’s silent for so long that Harry wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

“No.” Harry looks up at the certainty in Zayn’s tone. He’s not even looking back at him, eyes on the ceiling. Harry’s head rises and falls with the movement of Zayn’s chest. Instead of feeling calm and serene, it feels like a tsunami, waves crashing on a shore. “We could have made it as we are now.”

Harry mulls it over. His throat feels tight, constricted.

“You’re a selfish prick, Harry.” Zayn whispers, kissing Harry’s temple. It’s too swift and his lips are too soft. It’s unfair how Zayn can make Harry want him so bad.

Harry pinches his eyes shut and wills himself not to crumble. He swallows around a nod instead. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees.

Despite what Harry would have predicted, Zayn stands with him and walks Harry down to the front door. They don’t run into any of the Maliks on their descent, but Harry still feels like a million eyes are watching him. He digs his fingernails into his palms and ignores the voices in his head telling him to tell Zayn how he feels – how he’s felt; miserable and alone. Incapable of doing anything other than picturing a future without Zayn’s hazelnut eyes and smooth skin. How he locked himself in his room for three hours and listened to people sing about heartbreak and injustice.

But that’s not what this is.

Harry’s made the choice and now he’s got to live with it. He wasn’t sure how he expected their goodbye to go, but it certainly didn’t involve Zayn entwining their fingers together, redness rimming his eyes, and a sad, pitying smile as Harry adjusted his hair.

It also didn’t involve Zayn shutting the door so fiercely when Harry finally left.

+


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up to check the end of the chapter notes for some additional tags! i don't think it should trigger anyone bc it's quite minor, but if you want to double check, they're there :)

Saturday starts with Harry receiving a languid blowjob.

He wakes with a start, sputtering and jolting, kneeing the body between his legs.

“Jesus, Ry,” Harry laughs shakily.

Mariah laughs, scratching the insides of his thighs with manicured nails. They’re a bright orange colour, slightly chipped at the cuticles and around the edges of her thumbs. She looks flustered with her hair in a messy plait down her back. “That’s the thanks I get?” She asks, taking him in her hand and just holding him there.

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm his racing heart. “You’re the best,” he tells her. “Now get back at it.”

“Dick,” Mariah huffs. Still, she licks a long stripe up the underside of his dick.

Harry shivers, settling into the sheets and relaxing. It’s been ages since they’ve had a morning to indulge each other in morning sex. On weekdays, she’s gone before his alarm is even close to going off and on the weekends he’s normally on the train into the city as the sun comes up.

Harry settles deeper into the mattress and closes his eyes. He brings his arms up around his head and moans, satisfied with how tight Mariah’s mouth is around him. He warns her before he’s about to come, feeling her pull off and wrap a hand around him instead. It’s not disappointment that curls in his stomach, but it would have been nice if she would have swallowed him.

“Thanks,” Harry sighs, mellow. “Want me to…?”

“I’m good,” Mariah laughs. “I’m going to lunch with Niall anyway. I’m meeting the new girlfriend.”

Harry follows Mariah into their bathroom, pantsless with his sensitive dick slapping his thighs. “Niall’s got a girlfriend now?”

“Yeah. They just started dating. It’s all he can talk about in the office. Apparently she’s quite a bit younger, but that’s just the gossip.” Mariah offers Harry their toothpaste tablets. “I’m half afraid he’s going to bring her up on the radio.”

Harry laughs lightly before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth. He surveys the condition of his skin - a few pimples here and there, some mild bags under his eyes, and flushed cheeks. He glances over at Mariah, tall beautiful Mariah, with wide brown eyes and dark brown hair. She’s nearly as tall as he is with her hair thrown up in a bun on top of her head. Sometimes Harry can’t believe that this gorgeous girl chooses to spend her time with him, but he’s not about to question it.

“What?” Mariah asks, foam trickling down her chin.

“What what?” Harry retorts, a glob of foam plopping onto the counter.

Mariah spits and rinses her mouth. “You’re looking at me like you either want to fuck me or murder me and seeing as you’re all sexed out I would assume it’s the latter.”

“I’m never sexed out,” Harry reassures her.

Mariah shoves him in the shoulder, helpless giggles escaping. “Shut up.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

+

Harry’s first kiss happened when he was 12.

He was watching a movie with some friends when he kissed the girl he fancied like it was nothing. In hindsight it really was nothing. It was just a dry press of lips before they resumed watching _War of the Worlds_. The next time he saw her in class she ignored him and four weeks later when a rumour started that he liked another girl, she cried and called him a jerk in front of everyone.

That’s all that comes to mind when Harry sees the engagement ring she’s sporting on _Instagram_.

The sparkle is enhanced by the filter she’s chosen. It’s big and round on her dainty finger. The silver band is littered with smaller diamonds and the emojis she’s added to the caption make it clear that she’s over the moon.

Harry squirms in his seat and clicks on her profile.

He didn’t even think she had been dating her boyfriend for that long. A little over a year at best, but it’s not the three years he has been seeing Mariah for. Hell, they moved in together two years ago when her brother moved back to Egypt and she needed a place to live on short notice. Harry hadn’t even asked her really, it had just happened.

Gemma’s nagging voice repeats in his ear. Shit about settling down, proposing. Their mother’s voice echoes in his other ear about premarital children and ensuring that he’s ready. Chatter about attaining a stable job – getting a career – being carefully aimed at him during dinners with his parents. Holidays spent with his family and vacations to visit hers have become the norm for their time off. They don’t have a shared bank account, but they pay bills together, buy food together, are moving forward together.

There is still so much to do as a couple – which her father carefully keeps reminding him. They should buy a car, get a pet, and put a down payment on a house. Harry needs to ask permission to propose and her father would _really appreciate_ it if he could be a man and ask face to face. Her parents always ask about what type of wedding they want – massive and elaborate like her oldest brother or a backyard wedding like her middle brother had to that Canadian girl. He’s heard the spiel time and time again, each time with more urgency than the last.

Bitterly, Harry exits out of the app.

+

Harry never intended to live in Manchester.

When he graduated sixth form, he packed up his guitar and bought a van as a graduation gift. With Jonny in the passenger seat and the Eagles blaring from the speakers, they busked and sang and spent all the money they had. But after only one year on the road, Jonny gave into his mum’s insistence and went to Newcastle for school.

Harry’s granddad passed away when he was playing a gig in Limerick and he sold his van to pay for the flight home. The first week was full of tears and sorrow. Three days later he used his inheritance to buy a plane ticket to Amsterdam to continue his gigs. He celebrated his twentieth birthday at a German bar drinking beer and singing to a sold-out crowd. He bounced from bar to bar, town to town, country to country, singing and playing and meeting more people than the population of Holmes Chapel.

He spent a year traveling around Europe before returning to the UK, settling in London with a couple he met while they were on their honeymoon in Ibiza. The dreary weather hit him like a punch to the stomach and before he knew it he was missing the sun and booze and sex outside of the UK.

It wasn’t all bad though.

He met Mariah when Harry was a little down in the dumps, a little discouraged by singing in the streets and in the bars while his friends were graduating uni or going on yearlong backpacking trips. He entertained the idea of running off to Thailand or Uruguay, somewhere fun and fresh where he could be anonymous in a big city.

In the end he didn’t need to go anywhere, really. He was playing a show in London while housesitting for his friends when he saw Mariah in the crowd. It’s not like he sung directly to her, but he was unable to take his eyes off her face and her body and her wild, wild curls. He had thought that she and Niall were an item when he went to approach her after his set. After all, Niall had his arm slung over her shoulder and was taking a sip from her drink. But as soon as Harry introduced himself Niall gave them a suggestive look and scampered away.

It was a night full of drinks and laughter and a cheeky snog in the bathroom. Harry collected his pay from the bar and brought her back to the house where they stayed up until the early hours of the morning. Mariah left him with an indulgent kiss by the door and no promise to keep in touch despite their exchanging of numbers.

Harry played another show in London then moved on to Southampton once his friends returned from their vacation. He hooked up with a guy from his hostel and had a drunken make out with a waitress of a diner before he thought about Mariah.

It was actually Niall – verified on Twitter, _Capital Manchester Breakfast_ show host – who knocked some sense into Harry. Harry played three shows as he traveled north and when he saw Mariah again his attraction to her had doubled. It was after that week of shagging and early mornings and getting to know each other that Harry decided to stay in Manchester to see how things developed. He got a job managing the menswear department in Selfridges, found a flat, and started dating Mariah.

That’s all he can think about when its 22 degrees and he’s stuck on the bus into the city on his way to work. He feels fortunate to have such a non-restrictive dress code. Just a pair of jeans with whatever top is in season. The summer line finally arrived which means that Harry can where his loose button-downs without a blazer over top. Everyone is packed like sardines, sweating in their suits and glued to their phones. He hates the morning commute for this reason – he would much rather sleep in and start around noon, closing the store and doing inventory checks, catching the bus home later than all these stiff collared businesspeople.

On his walk from the bus station, he passes three people who are too involved in taking pictures of their coffees to notice his existence. He nearly gets walked into three times and there’s one lady who scowls at him when he smiles at her. He feels faceless, anonymous. Something cold and sour curls in his stomach when he unlocks the shop and by the time he’s turned on the bright lights and faced the mannequins, he’s in a foul mood.

He takes an early lunch and calls Mariah while squatting in the corner of the backroom.

“Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?” Mariah asks. “We can go to that Vietnamese place down the street?”

“I don’t want to leave the house,” Harry whines. “Sorry I’m in such a shit mood. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Mariah makes a sympathetic noise from the other end. “How about takeout then? I can meet you at the bus stop and we can grab a bottle of wine on the way home.”

“Can we watch _Chopped_ reruns?”

“Of course.”

One of Harry’s coworkers comes into the back looking frazzled and Harry’s frustration flares again.

“I’ll finger you when we get home, okay?”

Despite his exhaustion, Harry laughs. “I love you.”

+

Mariah wraps her arms around Harry’s neck as soon as he comes off the bus. The bag of takeout hits him square in the back, but he can’t be bothered. He has just enough energy to lift her off her feet, planting a smacking kiss on her lips.

“You smell like sandalwood.”

“Sandalwood? That’s specific.”

“S’like, manly or something.” Harry shrugs and sniffs her neck again. Mariah cackles, batting him away.

“Manly. Very descriptive.” Mariah takes Harry’s hand in hers and swings them. “Should I even ask you how work was?”

“Tiring. The ride to work was too hot and there were so many cranky customers.” Harry dodges a child running between the pedestrians. “The new summer line came in which means we have to get rid of most of the spring line and head office sent us the wrong sale prices for half the dress shirts. Trever, that new kid that transferred to my store, has no idea what he’s doing and his girlfriend spent half of his shift distracting him.”

“That’s annoying.”

“The whole day was annoying,” Harry frowns. “Sorry. I’m being negative. How was your day?”

“It was good,” Mariah shrugs. “That up-and-coming rapper from America pulled out of our Thursday show which means we have to find a replacement, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Niall’s a great host so he’ll recover.”

“And you’re a great producer,” Harry reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mariah laughs.

“The best producer Manchester Breakfast has ever seen.”

“Now you’re just buttering me up,” Mariah accuses.

Harry holds the door to the wine shop open and follows Mariah in. They give a smile to the cashier, the same one who is almost always there when they sneak in late at night. It’s daylight though and there’s a fair amount of people in the shop – more than Harry’s ever seen in here at one time. He lets Mariah choose her favourite bottle before digging out his wallet and paying for it. It’s a standard transaction, nothing out of the ordinary. It even includes Harry walking into someone outside the store.

But when he looks up he nearly drops the bottle of wine.

At first he thinks it’s an apparition of sorts. He’s only seen those sharp cheekbones, warm eyes, and shaved head on Facebook. He’s had the odd dream or flash memory about those sweeping eyelashes, thin fingers, and lithe body.

“Zayn?” Harry gasps, clutching the bottle tighter in his sweaty hand. He can feel Mariah’s eyes on him, but he can’t look away from Zayn.

Before he knows it, Harry’s reaching out to gather Zayn into a hug. It’s a little awkward, a bit too tight. Zayn’s breath fans over Harry’s neck when he mumbles a half-hearted, “Hey, Harry.”

He smells like expensive cologne instead of the body spray he’s obsessed with, or, used to be obsessed with. Harry doesn’t know if he is anymore. He doesn’t know anything about Zayn other than the miniscule bits that have appeared on social media throughout the years.

And it’s so strange that he’s here now.

Here in Manchester where he said he would never live. Maybe he’s just passing through.

“How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Yeah.” Zayn’s eyes shift over to Mariah and in an instant Harry’s fumbling to introduce them.

“This is Mariah. My girlfriend.” Harry watches them shake hands. “Mariah this is Zayn.”

“Nice to meet you,” she smiles.

“Do you live around here?” Harry asks. He can’t stop the nervous flutter in his stomach, the unstoppable tumble of words.

“No, I-”

“Hey babe.” An arm swings around Zayn’s shoulder, lips pressing a kiss to his cheek. Harry falters for a moment before sticking his hand out.

“Hi, I’m Harry.”

The man shakes his hand. It’s loose, weak. If there’s one thing Des managed to teach Harry it was that a strong handshake shows respect and a loose one is a dismissal.

“Jake,” the man goes on to shake Mariah’s hand. They exchange pleasantries, but Harry can’t help himself from watching Zayn.

He still licks his lips nervously; still scratches at his chin with his thumb and glances to the left. Zayn’s stubble is carefully trimmed. He has a small black hoop through his left ear and two gold studs through his right. There’s a silver stud in his nostril that Harry’s not seen in his Facebook photos. Then again, Harry has only seen the occasional post when it’s popped up.

“Well, we better get going.”

Harry jerks when Mariah puts a hand on his arm.

“Of course,” Harry nods. “It was um,” he bites his tongue and searches for a way to verbalize how he feels. “It was great to meet you, Jake. And it was great seeing you again, Zayn.”

“You too, Harry.”

Mariah waits about ten feet before leaning into Harry’s side and asking, “So how do you know him?”

“He’s an ex,” Harry stutters. He wonders where Zayn lives, how long he’s been with Jake. The desire to find out what Zayn’s been doing for the past couple of years boils.

Harry wonders who Jake is to Zayn. The lack of affection Zayn showed towards Jake points towards a first date. Maybe even just a one-off.

“From your busking days?” There’s a suggestive tone in Mariah’s voice that Harry doesn’t feel like sorting out.

“No,” Harry explains.

But Jake had kissed his cheek and Zayn had relaxed a little; half inch drop of his shoulders to lose that nervous alarm.

“From sixth form,” he says.

“Really?” Mariah near squeals. It’s too loud in the quiet street. “That’s adorable. He’s really hot.”

“He looks different now,” Harry deflects. _Better with age_ , he doesn’t say. He looked good with Jake too, but Harry doesn’t really want to think about that right now.

“Well,” Mariah laughs, taking the bottle of wine from Harry and tucking it under her arm. “If one thing’s for sure, you definitely have a type.”

 

For some reason, Harry can’t shake Mariah’s words.

They eat and drink and fuck on the sofa. Harry eats her out for half an hour after until she’s shaking and laughing and pushing him away from her. She gets up to shower, naked and sweaty and if it was any other time, Harry would be chasing after her.

This time though, he drags his boxers on and thinks about what Mariah said. He has never considered the fact that he might have a type. He’s only had two significant relationships in his life; Zayn and Mariah. Which, sure, there are certain parallels, but Harry’s been with men and women, older and younger people, people who speak multiple languages and that one girl in Brussels who had eleven fingers. He’s been with people from different races and different countries.

The fact that Zayn and Mariah are both half English didn’t occur to him. Nor did the fact that Mariah’s got three brothers and Zayn has three sisters.

Zayn always listened to Harry during their relationship. He made Harry feel safe and secure. They tried new things together, explored their sexualities for the first time. Zayn was gentle and eager, guiding Harry whenever he needed it and reading his body like one of his textbooks. Zayn was patient and fun. His sense of humour was almost as dry as Harry’s and they could laugh with each other for hours on end.

With Mariah it’s much the same. She’s funny and loud. She takes charge when she wants to and she’s a successful person. Sometimes Harry will come home from work late at night to her reading a book or cooking a delicious smelling meal. She’s always willing to try new things with him and their sex life is thrilling.

Harry scrubs a hand over his face and hates that he’s even comparing them in the first place.

As hard as he tries Harry can’t get his interaction with Zayn out of his mind. He was an idiot. He was overeager and overenthusiastic. He didn’t introduce Mariah fast enough and he hadn’t even realized that there was another man. He probably seemed like an excited puppy who didn’t want to part with his favourite chew toy.

“It’s been seven years,” Harry tells himself.

He sighs and reaches for his glass of wine and absolutely, positively, tries not to think about Zayn anymore.

+

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the concert?”

Harry sets down his empty bowl on the coffee table and shakes his head. “I’m still not feeling too hot.”

“Not even to take some photos? I know how you love that.”

It’s almost enough to sway Harry – the excitement of following a musician through his lens, taking snap after snap of the performer in their element. Ultimately, Harry shakes his head weakly.

Mariah presses the back of her hand against his forehead. “You don’t look too good.”

“I know,” Harry laughs. “Let Niall know I’m sorry, yeah? I did plan on going.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind as long as you make it to his barbeque on Saturday.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Harry sighs and hooks his finger into the bottom of Mariah’s dress. “You look beautiful by the way.”

Mariah does a spin. “Thank you. I’m quite excited to go. You know how Niall loves discovering new talent.”

“He should have discovered me,” Harry teases. “Imagine if I was a popstar or summat. I’d be rich and we could travel anywhere we want.”

“Too much competition.” Mariah runs her hands through Harry’s hair and tugs on the ends. It sends a ripple of arousal through his stomach. “You’d have so many people throwing themselves at you; models, movie stars. I’d just be pining from a distance.”

“That’s untrue,” Harry tells her. He clasps her wrists in his. “I’d choose you every time.”

+

The first time Harry went to one of Niall’s barbeques he was drunk by 3pm and sunburnt an hour later.

He went to take a nap on the sofa and ended up sleeping until 9pm, waking up with a dry mouth and a rumble in his stomach. Sheepishly, he walked outside to the remaining attendees roasting marshmallows and playing instruments. Mariah was in the middle of it all, dancing on a plastic chair with a beer in her hand and a smile on her face. Her voice was out of tune and her hair was in a fallen-out braid. Harry had stumbled over to her and swept her off her feet.

It’s one of Niall’s favourite stories to tell newcomers. He fondly relays it nearly every barbeque as his circle of friends is ever-expanding. Harry stopped being embarrassed about it after the first year.

“There’s my beer pong partner!” Niall shouts at him. Harry’s met with thin arms thrown around his shoulders and a wet, beer-smelling kiss pressed into his hair. “Hazza! King of beer, naps, and vomit!”

“You’re such a shit,” Harry laughs, shoving Niall off after reciprocating the tight hug.

“You love me,” Niall retorts. He hands Harry a cold bottle of beer before welcoming Mariah in the same manner. “You’ve gotta meet the missus though.”

“The missus,” Harry teases. He wiggles his eyebrows and glances around the backyard.

The space nearly has the same square footage as his actual house. It’s an immaculately decorated garden with cobblestone path, hot tub, swimming pool, and patio. His barbeque is his pride and joy, proven by the countless Instagram posts dedicated to it.

Harry’s so distracted looking at the new patio furniture he almost misses Niall’s cheer.

“Here she is! Mariah, Harry – this is Waliyha.”

“Wal-” Harry cuts himself off.

“Harry…” Waliyah says slowly. Her eyebrows draw together in signature Malik style as recognition slowly spreads across her face. “Oh my God, it’s been ages.”

Harry doesn’t tug her into a hug the same way he did with Zayn, but he does laugh at the coincidence of it.

“This is my girlfriend Mariah. Ry, this is actually Zayn’s sister. You remember Zayn, right? We ran into him outside the wine shop last week.”

Mariah looks at Harry like he’s grown a second head. “I remember, yeah. Hi, lovely to meet you.”

“Wait, so everyone already knows each other?”

“Well Mariah didn’t know Waliyha.”

“No, but she does know-”

“Zayn!” Waliyha waves excitedly.

Everyone in their little group turns to the back gate where Zayn and Jake wander through. It’s as though everything moves in slow motion when Zayn and Jake step off the patio and down into the garden. Jake’s wearing khakis and a red polo while Zayn’s in a pair of ripped jean shorts and a loose black top. He’s got a tattoo on his shin that Harry can’t quite make out from a distance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry mumbles. Mariah swiftly elbows him in the ribs before joining Waliyha in waving.

They’re an aesthetically pleasing couple, Harry can admit. Jake’s blond hair is a stark contrast to the darkness of Zayn’s.

“Hey Zayn.” Harry sounds stilted, just a touch more strained than he would have liked.

“Hello.” Zayn lifts his six pack of beer in greeting. “Mariah, right?”

“Yeah, fancy seeing you here,” Mariah laughs.

“S’crazy.” Zayn’s lips barely curve. He doesn’t look as caught off-guard as he had outside the wine shop, but the tension between the small group is palpable.

“Anyone want a drink?” Niall’s cheeks are pink. His hair is mussed from his hand running through it. “Zayn you can drop those beers in the cooler and I can chill that wine for you, Jake.”

“Thanks mate,” Jake says. His shoulders are curved as he looks at the ground. He’s probably as tall as Harry, but he looks much shorter with the poor posture. Harry figures he should try to say something, but his mouth suddenly feels dry. “Have to use the loo first though.”

Jake practically runs to the house while Zayn and Waliyha walk the opposite direction to the cooler. Mariah swings an arm around Harry’s midsection and squeezes.

“That was a bit awkward,” Niall comments. Harry catches a smirk twitch across Mariah’s lips and rolls his eyes. “So how do you all know each other?” Niall asks Harry.

“I used to date Zayn in year twelve. I know Waliyha from that, but I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“She’s quite fit, eh?”

“Niall, has she even taken her A levels?” Mariah whispers.

Niall’s carefree smile slips off his face. “She’ll be twenty in July. And she’s doing a degree in biochemistry.” Niall lowers his voice a touch below the music. “I know the age gap is a fair amount, but she’s mature and I know that sounds dickish, but… She keeps me in line and shit, makes sure I’m happy.” Niall glances at where Waliyha is uncapping a bottle of beer for Zayn. “It’s different than any relationship I’ve had.”

Zayn catches Harry’s eye from across the lawn. It’s unsettling, the way Zayn immediately looks away.

Harry feels raw and vulnerable. Split open.

He waits for Zayn to look back at him, but he never does.

“Then I’m happy for you,” Mariah decides.

“Me too, Ni.”

“Good.” Just like that, Niall’s megawatt smile is back. “Help me with the steaks, Harry.”

Reluctantly, Harry parts with his girlfriend and follows Niall to the grill. He hardly ever gets to be around the barbeque. There are two racks for cooking and four burners. The push button ignition and catch pan are the unnecessary flares that Niall proudly shows off to anyone that comes by. It’s his pride and joy; the one thing he splurged on when he moved in with his cousin Willie.

Harry bops his head to the playlist Niall’s put on. The sound of chatter can be heard over it and despite there only being a dozen attendees so far, Harry has a feeling it’s going to be a great party. Mariah’s already sitting on the Obama bench – the life-sized statue of the former American president had been a gag gift that Niall completely embraced – chatting with Willie and another one of her coworkers. She has a glass of sangria in her hand and an easy going smile on her face. The dark green dress she’s wearing makes her skin look radiant and the sunglasses holding her hair back are nearly lost in her curls.

Then Zayn passes through his field of vision and Harry’s reminded that he’s there.

He hasn’t thought much about Zayn since the one night on the sofa. He had pushed all thoughts of Zayn aside and busied himself with work and Mariah. He took nature photographs and cleaned the flat and avoided that wine shop at all costs.

Everything happens for a reason, Harry’s always believed in that, but he can’t understand why Zayn’s back. He has too many questions itching to be answered and Zayn’s seemingly cold shoulder isn’t exactly inviting. Harry bites his bottom lip and craves a drink. He just needs to loosen up. The butterflies in his stomach need to be set free.

“Quit your staring.”

Harry jerks, elbowing Niall hard in the stomach.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps. “You scared me.”

“No shit.” Niall gestures at Zayn with a pair of tongs. “What’s the story between you two anyway?”

Harry remembers crying to Jonny for all of year thirteen. He moaned about his failed relationship with Zayn for most of that entire year actually. He’d hook up with girls then end up drunkenly spilling their entire dating history while they patted his back. Gemma could probably recite all the things Harry loved about Zayn the most just from the sheer amount of time he spent crying about it.

But Harry hasn’t told anyone in years and it doesn’t seem all that significant now.

“I told you we just dated when we were kids.”

“Were you in love?”

“Jesus, Ni.” Harry glances over at Mariah, still obliviously talking to Willie.

Niall organizes some burgers on the grill and lets them sizzle. “It’s not like it matters now. I’m just curious ‘cause it seems kinda tense.”

“I’d like to think we were, yeah.” Harry’s stomach flips at that admission. It feels like a betrayal against Mariah in some sense. “It was puppy love though. We were kids.”

“So you said.” Niall adds a couple vegetarian patties to the opposite side. “Was he your first guy?”

Harry flushes down to his toes. “Jesus.”

“I’m curious,” Niall shrugs.

“You’re crude.” Harry shakes his head and absolutely does not think about the first time he and Zayn had the house to themselves. “I’m getting a drink.”

“Bring me a refill, won’t you?”

Harry flips Niall off as he goes.

He finds Mariah sitting with their popstar-turned-brunch-DJ, deep in conversation about a rising singer from Canada.

“She’s got a voice like honey,” Liam explains. “She can hit the high notes, but she’s got this deep drawl when she starts her songs, y’know?”

“I wouldn’t let the missus hear you say that,” Harry warns. He sits in the chair next to Mariah, stealing her plate of cheese and crackers. “She might feel like there’s some competition.”

Liam’s eyebrows pull into a deep frown.

“No one could ever compete with Cheryl.” Which, Harry gets because its Cheryl bloody Cole and Liam has written songs and dedicated albums to her, but – “All I’m saying is that this girl is huge in America and it wouldn’t hurt our ratings to have her on Breakfast.”

Mariah purses her lips. Harry places his palm on Mariah’s thigh and squeezes.

“I’ll make Annie do some research in the morning.”

Liam fist pumps before pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Best producer that ever lived,” he exclaims. “I’m getting snacks, want anything?”

“No thanks,” Mariah laughs, lifting her plate. It’s still overflowing with pretzels and gourmet cheeses. The watermelon slices have leaked their juices to soak the bottom of the crackers.

“That’s disgusting by the way,” he tells her. He steals a piece of watermelon. It’s for the greater good of her plate if he’s honest.

“Get your own plate, you thief.”

“But then I’d have to get up.” Harry grins. Mariah laughs, settling her hand on his thigh.

Harry steals a kiss, quick and gentle.

When they first began dating, Harry was so afraid of putting her off.

He was a twenty-one year old failed singer who ended up working in a department store half an hour from where his mother lived. He spent every penny trying to wine and dine the successful breakfast show producer and partied in some of the most exclusive clubs Manchester had to offer thanks to her. It wasn’t until they had been dating for a couple of months that Mariah told him she would rather spend a night in fooling around on the sofa and drink cheap merlot than drinking champagne that made her stomach ache from all the bubbles.

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded Harry and he felt like he had to prove himself less and less. Except for how he thought he going to pass out the first time he met Liam and Cheryl. He was so star struck it took him an entire minute to think of a conversation topic that wasn’t asking about their music. Now, he feels comfortable among the footballers, singers, actors, and various personalities that make up Mariah’s circle of friends.

It isn’t until after a couple rounds of beer pong, a pickle eating contest between Niall and Willie, and a refilled sangria dispenser that Mariah calls him out for acting ‘strange’.

“Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“Who?” Harry asks, feigning ignorance.

His stomach is achy from all the food, gums numb from the alcohol. He’s got no idea what time it is, but the sun is quickly setting and the garden lights have switched on.

“Zayn, Harry.”

“Is Zayn here? I forgot.”

Mariah ignores him in favour of drinking from her beer. “It’s a bit awkward, Harry. It feels like everyone’s been dancing around each other.”

“We’re not avoiding each other,” Harry says. He glances over at where Zayn and Jake are being entertained by Waliyha and Willie.

“Come on. Even I’ve managed to talk to them.”

“What’d you talk about?”

Mariah sips coyly. Her lipstick has mostly faded, clinging to the cracks of her lips. “Just chatter. It was cordial. It was a bit awkward though.”

“See, that’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Harry-”

“Nope. I’ve gotta wee.”

“You could pass by and have a three second conversation with them,” she suggests.

“Or…” Harry drags out, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend. “You could accompany me and we can see what we can get up to in Niall’s bathroom.”

Mariah shoves his arm off with an affronted laugh. “You’re the worst. If I’d have two more drinks in me, then maybe I would’ve considered it.”

“Later?” Harry asks, unable to keep the eagerness from his tone.

Mariah rolls her eyes, but nods anyway.

She’s fun like that – easygoing and fun. That’s exactly how Harry would describe her to anyone who asked. She knows what she wants and she’ll go for it, but she’ll go along with most things Harry suggests. That was one of the things that stood out the most when they first started dating. Harry had been so afraid of seeming uncool, lost, and confused compared to her seemingly impeccable confidence.

It wasn’t until their third date when she spilled a glass of red wine down her crème coloured suede dress that Harry realized she wasn’t as put together as he thought.

He’s still thinking about her when he’s washing his hands.

He ate some delicious burgers and with a couple more glasses of sangria and some more drinking games, the perfect ending to the night would be fucking his girlfriend over the sink.

Harry makes his way over to the drinks table and pours himself a glass of the newly refilled sangria, takes a sip, and then Zayn’s there.

“Hey,” Harry startles. He’s unprepared for the contact. His lips are so dry it hurts to smile. “Want a glass?”

“Got a beer, thanks.” Zayn digs his free hand into his front pocket. His sunglasses are propped on his head. The bags under his eyes have become more pronounced, but it’s not unflattering. He looks mature, adult.

The day Zayn left for university, Harry imagined hundreds of scenarios of how they would meet again. They were all soppy and romantic, inspired by _Love Actually_ and _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. Harry had written songs about their inevitable reunions. After all, with the Maliks living in the same town, Zayn was bound to come back for holiday and school breaks. But a month after Zayn left for Edinburgh, the Maliks sold their house and moved back to Bradford. The crushing realization that they would never meet again is a feeling Harry doesn’t like to remember.

“Um.” Harry stares into his glass, struggling with where to start. “So do you live in Manchester now?”

“Could we ah, talk? Inside?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s body moves before his feet are ready and he trips over himself. Zayn’s hand is there on his bicep; warm, steady. A blush burns against Harry’s cheeks. His palms sweat and he squeezes his glass just to make sure it won’t slip. “Where to?”

“Dunno,” Zayn licks his bottom lip. “Never been to the house before.”

“We can go to the kitchen. It’s just through the doors.”

Harry leads the way, painfully aware of everything his body is doing from the sway of his hips to the length of his strides. Zayn would always complain that Harry’s steps were too big. He was always a few inches behind, boots clunking against whatever ground they were on. But that was years ago, a lifetime it seems.

Harry hoists himself onto the countertop and swings his legs against the cupboards below. Zayn does the same, hoisting himself onto the island in the middle of the room.

“S’a nice house.” Zayn comments. “Really spacious for one person.”

“Oh, he doesn’t live by himself. He lives with his cousin Willie.” Zayn hums, but doesn’t offer any more conversation. “He’s the brunette in the red vest top.”

The air between them is so awkward Harry wonders why Zayn wanted to talk to him in the first place.

“I moved here last fall for school.”

“The fall?” Harry asks, alarmed. That was ages ago – seasons. He wonders why Zayn never contacted him, never tried to meet up. Then again, it’s not as though Zayn would have known he was living in the city. He’s not sure how much Zayn knows about his life at all. He reckons none.

Still, he questions how many buses they’ve nearly been on together, how many times they may have passed each other on the train without noticing. “Are you at Manchester?”

“Salford. I’m doing my Master’s in creative education with art and design.”

“Holy shit, Zayn.” Harry swells with pride. “That’s fantastic. That sounds right up your alley.”

“Thanks, yeah. I really love it.”

Silence settles upon them again.

“I’ve been here for three years,” Harry offers. He takes another sip – then another because he’s almost done the glass.

“For work or school?”

“Work.” And because Harry’s never been able to keep a secret from Zayn he elaborates. “I actually moved here after meeting Mariah in London.”

Zayn’s attention on the cupboards behind Harry’s head doesn’t waiver.

“So I just wanted to tell you-” Zayn starts at the same time Harry says, “How long have you been with Jake?”

Harry flushes an even deeper shade of scarlet.

Zayn smirks like they’re kids again and just saved Harry from tripping over his feet again. They catch each other’s eye and it’s enough to break the tension between them.

“Three months,” Zayn answers with a shrug. “I just wanted to tell you that what happened when we were young… happened. We’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, so I didn’t want there to be any animosity between us.”

It’s abrupt, the way Zayn seems to end their conversation when Harry has so many more questions.

“Of course,” Harry nods seriously. “I didn’t – I wouldn’t think there would be.”

“Good.” Zayn smiles again and his entire face changes. He looks seven years younger and Harry’s heart aches for long enough that he has to look away. Zayn drains the rest of his beer and sets it on the counter. “I’m ready to try some more of that sangria now.”

 

“So,” Mariah begins. She’s undressing in front of the mirror, watching Harry to the left of her reflection. “I thought today went well.”

“Obviously,” Harry says. “All of Niall’s parties go well.”

Mariah holds her dress up with her arm across her chest.

Harry loosens his belt and lets it fall to the floor. His eyes stay fixated on her dress, waiting for the rest of it to drop.

“You know what I mean.” Mariah drops her dress to the floor before bending over. Harry takes quick steps to meet her by the time she’s stepping out of it and standing again.

“Why would things not have gone well?”

“It was a bit awkward at the beginning.”

Harry ghosts his fingers along her sides, settling on her hips.

“And it was awkward the first time we met.”

Harry brushes his nose down Mariah’s neck.

“I don’t really want to talk about Zayn, to be honest.”

“Stop trying to redirect the conversation,” Mariah tells him. She side steps him and picks up her dress. “I just think it’s weird how Jake didn’t say one word to either of us.”

“I didn’t try to say anything to him,” Harry says. He shrugs out of his shirt and tosses it near his belt. “He seemed like he didn’t want to be there.”

“I just think it’s rude.”

“Well stop, _just thinking_ ,” Harry teases. He gets a hold of Mariah’s hips again and hauls her into him. Her skin is warm and she smells faintly like her perfume.

Mariah huffs, but allows him to press hot, wet kisses against her neck. Harry thumbs at the clasp at the front of her bra and once that’s off, her peels the straps down her arms and removes it.

“Babe, I’ve got to shower,” she says, although she makes no move to step away from him.

Harry’s hands smooth down her sides, meeting just below her belly button. “So do I. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

“I don’t think so, mister.”

“Please.” Harry shifts his hips forward. He’s got a semi just from watching her undress, but he’s sure he could get hard in no time. “It would save water.”

“Don’t use my eco-consciousness against me.” Despite her best efforts, her head falls back onto Harry’s shoulder and she tilts her bum back.

“I could wash your hair, give you a massage.”

“That’s code for you want a blow job then want to take me from behind.”

Harry laughs, kissing just behind her ear.

“It’s sexy how you know what I want.”

Mariah hip checks Harry out of the way. She flings her dress over Harry before yanking him in.

“Give me five minutes to clean, then you can come in. Deal?”

“I don’t know…” Harry drawls. He kisses her hard, trying to change her mind. “Don’t know if I can wait that long.”

“Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

She leaves with a parting wink.

+

Harry knocks on the dressing room door with two knuckles.

“Stefan? I’ve brought your McQueen shirt in a medium.”

The customer opens the door with a bright smile. Harry holds up the hanger with the said shirt along with a brightly patterned button-up.

“I also brought you a Sandro shirt. It’s from the new collection and it’s got a really lovely depth-enhancing artisan print. It’s the same price,” Harry says quickly when Stefan opens his mouth. “But I thought it would look great with your eyes. The seafoam will really make them pop.”

“I don’t know,” Stefan says. His Geordie accent is thick and doesn’t seem to match his face. He purses his lips and glances from the Stefan shirt to the baby blue McQueen. “It’s for a wedding and I don’t want to stand out too much. My wife is wearing grey.”

“This is the perfect thing to wear with grey. It will add just the right amount of pattern under a suit and by the time you get sweaty enough to take it off for the dancing, everyone will be too plastered to care if it’s too bright.”

Stefan tentatively takes the hanger and holds it up.

“I’ll try it, but I’m not making any promises.”

Harry holds his palm out to him and laughs. “No worries, mate. Just try it.”

Harry saunters back to the till, snapping his gum as he goes. He’s working with people he actually enjoys – a sharp-tongued girl who just aced her A-levels and a twenty-two year old failed actor with a lip ring.

He wouldn’t say that he’s grown close with his co-workers – he much prefers Mariah’s lively bunch of personalities compared to his associates who would rather sit in the back and Snapchat than actually put away stock – but there are a few people he’s grown fond of despite the high turn-over rate of the menswear department.

“Marcy, I’m going to make schedules in the back as soon as my customer’s done in the changing room.” Harry resumes his position behind the till. “You can take your break when I’m done with that, alright?”

From across the store, Marcy nods at him. She’s working on a new sock display. Harry has no idea why she feels the need to change the displays every shift, but if it keeps her occupied, he’s not about to complain.

“Excuse me.”

Harry looks up ready to assist Stefan, but the Geordie accent doesn’t belong to him.

“Oh,” Harry says, alarmed. “Hey, Jake.”

“Hi.” Jake looks more so alarmed. His brown eyes are wide, blond hair pushed up into a generous quiff.

“What can I help you with?”

Jack fumbles his hands together and glances at Marcy.

Harry’s cheeks blush. The pit of his stomach is in knots, throat uncharacteristically tight.

“Oh. I need help picking out a tie.” Jack sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and mumbles, “Please.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter and leads the way to the tie display. “What kind of tie were you thinking? We have patterned or plain ones.” Harry gestures to the various ties. “We just got these beautiful Lanvin ones in. The patterns are subtle, but-”

“I just need a dark red one.” Jake’s expression is pinched. “That came out rude, sorry. I thought it would be easier to tell you the colour rather than make you go through a million options.”

“No worries, mate.” Harry forces himself to smile. “Is there a special occasion?”

“Um,” Jake scratches behind his ear and looks bashfully at the ties Harry has picked up. “Zayn’s driving up to Bradford tomorrow for an Aunt’s wedding and I’m going with him, so…”

“Oh, that’ll be fun. Which aunt?”

“Maryum, she’s-”

“Yeah, I know who she is.” Harry shoves the four ties towards Jake. “Is she marrying Fiad?”

Jake nods while accessing the tie.

Half a dozen memories flood to Harry: the first time he met Zayn’s family when Maryum pinched his cheeks and declared how cute he was, when Harry and Zayn were snogging on the sofa and Trisha, Doniya, and Maryum seemingly burst through the front door, and when Maryum brought Fiad over for a family dinner and proudly introduced him to everyone.

“Should be a good wedding,” Harry offers. “Do you know if Niall’s going?”

“He can’t. He’s got a promotional event on Saturday.”

“Oh, yeah. I think Mariah’s going to that too.”

Jake hums, handing Harry three ties and holding the final one up to his chest.

“Does this look alright?”

Harry ducks down and squints.

“I think the vertical chevrons add enough detail to be fancy, but I’m not sure if it will go with a black shirt.”

“I’m wearing a white shirt underneath. I don’t think I’m wearing a suit jacket.”

Harry’s mind goes back to Zayn’s senior prom. He remembers more now than he had the morning after prom, bits coming back to him piece by piece. Zayn had pulled him in by the lapels and practically growled about how sexy Harry looked in a suit. It didn’t even take half a minute for Harry to get hard, hearing about how much Zayn liked him in the ensemble. ‘The best thing about a suit jacket is getting you out of it,’ Zayn had whispered against his lips. Harry had whimpered, buckling at the knees.

They had stayed in a hotel that night. It wasn’t fancy or expensive by any means, but Robin was able to get them a discount and both of their parents pretended as if they didn’t know what they were about to do that night. They drank champagne and had a camera roll full of photos and when Harry woke up with his tie still on and nothing else, he had assumed they were going to be okay.

“Do you think Zayn will like this? He’s wearing red so I figured I should match.”

“Yeah. Zayn loves ties, so,” Harry says, but it comes out frazzled. He wants to tack on something mean, something biting. Maybe an ‘it was the only thing he kept on me after prom,’ but he’s not a mean person and it wouldn’t do him any good. Besides, Jake’s been nothing but amicable despite his uncomfortable exterior.

Their exchange at the register is stilted. Harry tries to keep his conversational tone, but he finds that he’s suddenly worn out, exhausted. By the time Stefan emerges from the changing room with the Sandro shirt, Harry can’t even find it in himself to be pleased.

+

Harry’s half-heartedly watching _Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution_ when Mariah comes home.

He goes to stand, but she immediately dumps herself onto the sofa, tipping over with a sigh and burying her head in his lap. Harry’s hand strokes her hair on instinct, other hand smoothing down her side to rest on her hip.

“Good night?” He asks gently.

Mariah nods, shifting so she’s facing the ceiling. Her bun is even messier than when she left, her mascara smudged along her lash lines, and her skin mildly greasy looking. “Tired.”

“M’glad you got home okay. It’s late.”

“It’s half past one,” Mariah corrects drowsily. “We used to go out till five in the morning.” Mariah wiggles around some more, getting comfortable. She takes one of Harry’s hands in hers and holds it on her lower belly where her shirts slipped up. “Remember that one time we went out with Niall and we partied so late you came to the studio with us and napped on the floor?”

“That was fun,” Harry recalls.

There had been about six too many Sambuca shots and every time he kissed Mariah it was with sticky lips. The three of them got told off by Mariah and Niall’s superiors, but it was more to save face than to actually reprimand them. They had an impromptu twenty minute jam session that led to some of the highest listener rates for that month, if only to hear Niall slur the words he attempted to sing.

“M’getting too old to party like this.”

“You’re twenty-five.”

Mariah rolls her eyes. “A year older than you.”

“Mhmm.” Harry leans down and pecks her lips. They’re dry, lipstick barely there. “You know how I love older woman.”

“You won’t love me when I’m 30 and decrepit.”

“I’ve already got a receding hairline.”

Mariah smacks his chest gently. She twists her fingers in the soft fabric of his sleep shirt and tugs him down for a gentle, sucking kiss. Harry tastes of beer and BBQ crisps while Mariah tastes of red wine. When she lets go of his shirt she falls back into his lap.

It’s quiet in their place, save for the soft sounds of Jamie Oliver revolutionizing schools. Harry thinks Mariah’s fallen asleep until she says, barely above a whisper, “Do you want kids?”

Harry brushes her hair out of her face. He kisses her temple once and whispers back, “Of course.”

“With me?” Mariah sighs.

“If I have to.” His attempt at jest misses the mark.

“I’m being serious.”

Harry studies her face. There’s a worried crease between her eyebrows and her lips are downturned the slightest amount. Harry’s frowning himself, caught off guard.

“Well then, yes. I don’t see why not.”

“Good,” Mariah mumbles. “I suppose I should go to bed, now.”

Harry helps her up before surveying the table in front of him. “I’ll clean up and meet you in a minute, alright?”

Mariah’s makes her way to their stairs and Harry picks up the empty packet of crisps. He’s exhausted by their brief discussion and although he didn’t have many expectations for when she came home – he certainly wasn’t expected to be confronted with the question of children. Normally when Mariah returns from work functions she either snuggles up to him with wine breath or she’s pouncing on him with a high libido.

Harry doesn’t mind either one – he’s glad that she comes home to him every night safe and sound – but Mariah has only ever mentioned children in the distant future as an abstract notion.

Harry recycles his beer bottle and throws out his crisps, discarding their conversation as nothing more than drunk curiosity. Mariah’s asleep in her pajamas, sprawled in the middle of the bed when Harry finally makes his way upstairs.

+

“It was just weird, Ni,” Harry confesses over a pint of beer. “Her family asks us about having kids whenever they visit and I know my mum wants us to get married, but it’s just… I didn’t expect it from her. She always deflects when they ask.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Niall tops off his glass with the pitcher in the middle. “Clearly she sees a future with you. That’s good, right?”

“Right, of course.” Harry steals a nacho from the plate in the middle and dunks it in a generous amount of guacamole. “I’m surprised she didn’t say anything today, though.”

“When did you see her?”

“I said goodbye this morning before work and when I got back she was already out for the day.”

Niall whistles, shrugging. “I wouldn’t think too much about it, Haz.”

“I know, I know. I’ve just got to have another beer or two.”

They clink glasses and drink in silence for a moment.

“At least she’s gorgeous,” Niall adds. “Your children would be adorable. Halfies always are.”

“Mariah’s a halfie. Our offspring would be quarter-ies.”

“ _Offspring_ ,” Niall laughs. “That’s fucked. Just say children or like… kids. Be normal.”

“Offspring is normal,” Harry pouts. “I-”

“Hey, there’s Zayn!” Niall enthuses, effectively cutting off Harry’s train of though. “Zayner! Over here, mate!”

Harry turns over his shoulder and like slow motion, Zayn’s sauntering over to them with a big grin on his face. He claps Harry’s shoulder like they’re the best of pals before engulfing Niall in a hug.

“You here alone?” Niall asks. He slides down the booth and makes room for Zayn.

“I’m meeting Jake, in a bit.” Zayn’s eyes scan the bar, lazily. “I’m early for once, though.”

“Have a beer with us while you wait then,” Niall invites. “Hell, when he gets here you should join us. It’s just me and Haz.”

“If that’s alright with Harry.”

Harry starts, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, you’re always welcome.”

Zayn nods. It’s a silent thank you, Harry knows.

“Is Mariah here?”

“Nope.” Harry waits for Niall to finish signalling a waitress over before finishing, “She had some girl’s night or something with a friend from out of town. They’re having a sleepover.”

“Hot,” Niall sniggers.

Harry kicks him under the table, glaring. “You have a girlfriend.”

“Fuck yeah I do. Best one I could ask for.” He shoots Zayn a thumb’s up.

Zayn rolls his eyes and shares a look with Harry.

It’s insane, Harry thinks, how effortlessly they’re able to read each other still. It’s as if they’re across from each other at Nando’s again, seventeen and playing footsies under the table while they tease each other with a sexy chip eating competition. Harry was always rubbish at those.

“How was your aunt’s wedding?” Harry finally asks. He flushes when Zayn raises an eyebrow at him. “I ran into Jake at work when he was buying a tie.”

“Jake didn’t mention that,” Zayn frowns.

Harry doesn’t have time to be wounded before Zayn’s shrugging and taking a generous chug from his beer.

“It was good, though. Everyone seemed to have a good time. They kept pestering Wali about her new boyfriend,” Zayn tells Niall.

Niall puffs his chest out proudly. “What’d she tell them?”

“That there was no way in hell she would bring her boyfriend to meet our crazy family.”

Harry joins Zayn in laughter.

“Trust me, there’s no way your family is crazier than mine,” Niall says. “My brother got married six years ago and everyone was drunk before the ceremony even started. My grandad started singing old Irish tunes and the best man almost puked during his speech. I thought her family was going to demand a divorce on the spot.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry laughs. “I always wanted a big family. That’s why I liked being at yours the best,” he says to Zayn. “Your family’s huge.”

“S'not always a good thing.” Zayn signals for the waitress to bring another pitcher of beer. “We hardly ever got any privacy. Especially when the Aunties visited.”

“Your Aunties were the best. They always fawned over me.”

“It was the curls,” Zayn says. He reaches out and ruffles Harry’s hair. “Shame they’re gone.”

“I grew my hair once, y'know.”

“Jesus, it was so long,” Niall reminisces. “Proper Rapunzel.”

“No way.” Zayn squints at Harry’s hair. It’s pushed off his face with a small amount of gel. “Do you have pictures?”

Harry tugs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls back in his camera roll.

There are mostly pictures of him with his family, the occasional one of him and Mariah, and a few of him with Niall. He shows Zayn a photo where his hair is a couple inches past his shoulders. If it happens to be one where he’s wearing his favourite sheer shirt with the buttons undone to his stomach, eyes a tiny bit glossy from one too many drinks, and a huge, dimpled grin on his face, then it’s a complete coincidence.

“It was long,” Zayn says. “Holy shit.” Zayn’s eyes meet Harry’s when he looks up from the phone. His stare is intense, scrutinizing. “Why’d you cut it?”

“It was too much maintenance,” Harry shrugs. “I cut it about two years ago and donated it.”

“To a princess fund,” Niall explains, wide grin on his face. “Lost some of the curlies since you cut it.”

“Who’s that?” Zayn asks when a picture of Harry and a baby pops up.

“That’s Ellis. She’s Gemma’s daughter.”

“Gemma has a kid?”

“A _daughter_ ,” Harry scolds, but there’s no heat behind it. “She just turned two, absolutely gorgeous. She’s expecting a boy in August.”

“I’m getting another pitcher,” Niall announces. “I don’t know where our server went.”

The boys wave him off, leaning closer together as Harry opens his photo album for his niece.

Zayn coos at nearly every photo. Their heads are close together, glasses drained by the time Niall sits back down.

“Took you long enough,” Zayn scolds, not taking his eyes off of Harry’s phone.

Harry laughs, tipsy and delighted until he sees that Jake is in Niall’s chair.

“I texted you,” Jake all but hisses, “I said I was going to be late.”

“I thought you were Niall,” Zayn explains, clearly surprised.

“Honest, mate,” Harry agrees. “He’s at the bar. He went to get a refill.”

Harry twists in his seat and sure enough, Niall’s walking their way with two massive pitchers.

“Oi, Jake! You’re here!” Niall places the pitchers on the table. “The bartender said he’d give us unlimited beer on the house if I mentioned them on the radio.” Niall’s cheeks are ruddy and his smile easy. It’s far from the tension Harry feels in his chest. “Let me get another glass for you.”

“I can grab it,” Harry offers. “I’ve got to go to the loo anyway.”

Harry washes his hands and scrubs his face with cold water after taking a piss. He runs through every short conversation he’s had with Jake, but finds no explanation for Jake’s hostility. So he asks the bartender for a glass and shot of tequila and ensures that it’s on Niall’s invisible tab before making his way back, determined to make a good impression.

It turns out to be easier than anticipated.

Jake is in a better mood when Harry returns and if his smiles seem coerced, then Harry overlooks it.

+

The following weeks pass in a blur.

First it’s month end which means that Harry’s running around the store like a chicken with his head chopped off and then it’s exam season which means that most of the younger employees have booked time off to revise. Harry ends up working overtime most days and although the extra pay is welcomed, it also means that he has less time for himself.

His hair constantly feels greasy and his face has more pimples than when he was 16 and ate chips every day. He hasn’t found the time to jack off in days and there’s even less time for him to wander around time with his camera. Plus, he feels like he hasn’t seen Mariah in months.

They sleep in the same bed and eat the same meals, but she’s gone before Harry can even fathom being awake and by the time he comes home it is well past her bedtime. They’ve kissed and touched whenever they can, but Mariah’s period lasted longer than they expected and Harry hadn’t liked the idea of asking for sex when he couldn’t reciprocate.

Which is why Harry swings by the wine shop on his way home from work on the second Friday of June. He’s been keyed up all day, anxious to get home and give his girl a big, foot-popping kiss. He picks up a bottle of red, full and fruity with high alcohol content along with an expensive package of spreadable cheese. There’s a spring in his step as he walks up the front stairs, song in his head as he unlocks the door – but all the lights are off and there’s no sign of Mariah anywhere.

“Babe?” Harry calls out.

He locks the door behind himself and slips out of his shoes.

“Ry?” Harry flicks on the foyer light, illuminating down the corridor.

He checks his phone and sees that, since he’s connected to Wi-Fi, he has a multitude of messages from Mariah about going to see _Wicked_ at the Opera House with Cheryl. Despite his disappointment, Harry takes the wine with him upstairs. He draws a bubble bath and resigns himself to the fact that Mariah probably won’t be home until past midnight.

With gentle music echoing in the bathroom, a full bottle of wine, and warm, glittery water around him, Harry allows himself to relax. He should go in for a massage with his physio and should probably restart his hot yoga membership. He makes a long list in his head of things that have to be done sooner rather than later, but it doesn’t quite relax him like he thought it would. So he does the next best thing he can think of.

He brushes his soapy hands over his nipples, down his abs, and palms at his dick. It’s soft against his thigh under the water, but Harry can feel arousal building.

“Fuck,” he whispers, starting to stroke his dick properly.

After so many days of cold showers and suppressing his sexual appetite, Harry just wants to get off. The bathtub isn’t the most comfortable and the porcelain digs awkwardly into his shoulder blades. He can’t fuck into his fist nor can he get a good angle with his elbow whacking against the edge of the tub. Still, he’s hard and leaking, glitter clinging to the precome that’s floating around.

He moans softly and bites his bottom lip, his toes curl against the bottom of the slippery tub. His nipples are hard despite the warm water and he pinches his right one hard enough that it makes him hiss. The taste of the wine is still lingering on his tongue.

Harry imagines fucking Mariah. He thinks about her pajama shorts and the threadbare vest top she wore last night. She smelt like vanilla and coconut and she made these breathy little moans in her sleep. Harry used to kiss her shoulders to wake her up for a midnight romp.

Harry clenches his eyes shut, thumbing the slit of his dick. His balls are aching and sweat prickles at his temples. He moans louder, jacks off faster, and comes with an almighty grunt.

He allows himself thirty seconds to bask in the afterglow before unplugging the bath and turning on the shower. Harry washes himself up and emerges from the shower with a billowing cloud of steam following him.

+

Blindly, Harry reaches for his shrieking phone.

“Hello,” he mumbles. Exhaustion makes his eyes throb. Beside him, Mariah snorts in her sleep and rolls over.

“Hey Harry. It’s Zayn.”

Harry tosses his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. “Morning. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Did I wake you up?”

The alarm clock on Harry’s side table blinks 08:45 at him, though he supposes that now that he’s awake, he might as well stay that way.

“Yeah, but it’s alright. I should be getting up anyway.”

Harry creeps into to the ensuite, closing the door behind him.

“Um, okay. Good.” There’s a stilted moment of silence before Zayn carries on. “So I have a bit of an odd question. Feel free to say no,” he continues. “But… I got a bed frame and I need help putting it in.”

“You just got a bedframe?” Harry asks, bewildered. “I thought you moved in ages ago.”

“October,” Zayn confirms. “I’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor and I need some help putting it together.”

Harry inspects himself in the mirror. He could do with a shave and definitely a shower. “I can help.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s an inconvenience but-”

“It’s fine, Zayn. I’d love to help.”

Zayn sighs in relief. “I owe you man. Can you come over around four?”

“Four,” Harry laughs. “Zayn it’s not even 9. I can’t even believe you’re awake this early if I’m honest.”

“Hey, I wake up early now.”

Harry snorts. “Do not.”

“Well today I did,” Zayn says. “I’ve got to get to work, but I’ll text you my address. Thanks.”

Harry cleans his teeth and climbs back under the sheets. The bed’s still warm and Mariah faces him once he’s covered himself up to his shoulders.

“Who was on the phone?” She asks.

“Zayn.” Harry reaches out and rests his hand on her arse. He pulls her flush to his front and kisses her forehead. “I’m going over later to help him set up a bedframe.”

“Really?” Harry kisses her again when her nose scrunches up. “How’d he get your number?”

“Oh. I’m not sure, actually. Maybe Niall?”

“Maybe.” Mariah wiggles away from him and sighs into the pillow. “What time are you going?”

“Around four? I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

He watches Mariah’s face carefully, but she doesn’t look any variation of upset. Instead, she brushes her hand over his abdomen and down his treasure trail.

“Are you not coming to dinner with Florence then?”

“Who’s Florence?”

“She’s my new hairdresser. I told you this Harry.”

Harry searches his brain for any Florence. He comes up blank. “I must have forgotten, sorry. I might be able to make it if you go out later.”

“No, that’s okay.” Mariah removes her hand and creates even more space between them. “Spend time with Zayn.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re mad about this?”

“I’m not mad,” she says in a voice that very much says she is mad.

“I can call him back and tell him I can’t make it anymore.”

“Don’t do that,” Mariah tells him.

Harry squeezes Mariah’s arse until her face is back to a neutral expression.

“I’ll try to finish early, alright? Then I can come meet Florence.”

“Only if you want,” Mariah says going for offhanded. Still, her smile is huge.

“I do want.”

Harry ducks his head to kiss the side of her mouth. When she quirks her lips, he kisses her properly.

 

Zayn’s flat is only a ten minute walk away.

Harry finds it easily enough with the help of Google Maps. As he’s buzzed past the front door and begins to climb the stairs, there’s a nervous flicker in his stomach.

“Hey,” Zayn greets. He’s wearing a pair of baggy grey shorts and a loose vest top. His hair is a bit longer than it had been when they first saw each other. Zayn steps aside and leads Harry into his house.

“So, I may have lied on the phone.”

To his surprise, Harry sees four large boxes.

“Okay.” Harry eyes the boxes, confused.

Zayn steps beside the boxes and smiles crookedly.

“I went a little overboard and ended up getting more than just a bedframe.”

“I can see that,” Harry says. “What did you get?”

“A bookshelf, a desk chair, an actual desk,” Zayn rolls his eyes at himself, “and the bedframe.”

“You…” Harry laughs, unable to help it. “Why the hell didn’t you get this before?”

Harry glances around the barely furnished flat. The kitchen has a small table with two chairs and the room they’re currently in has a bean bag chair, sofa, and television on a dresser. It looks more like a student flat.

“I didn’t think I needed it,” Zayn shrugs. “And I couldn’t afford it, but.”

“Well, you’re lucky I’ve cleared my schedule for the rest of the night then.”

Despite Harry’s assumption that this would be an easy task, he quickly finds that it is much more difficult than anticipated.

Two hours in, he’s got sweat licking at his temples and down his lower back. His arms are actually sore from using a manual screwdriver to build the bedframe – Zayn’s lack of an electric one has proven to be a massive inconvenience – but it’s the last thing they’ve got to build and Harry’s looking forward to a rest. His knees ache from kneeling for so long. Zayn himself isn’t doing much, not that Harry truly expected him to. Instead, he’s handing Harry pieces, telling him what goes where and when he’s got something upside down.

When Harry finally tightens the last screw, he slumps onto his haunches and slicks his hair off his face.

“Looks good,” Zayn comments.

“No thanks to you,” Harry says.

Zayn kicks him in the thigh and kneels by the top of the shelf.

“Just got to set the mattress on top and we’re done.”

“Thank fuck,” Harry sighs. “I feel disgusting.”

“You look it.”

Harry glares at Zayn. There’s a playful look in Zayn’s eyes that Harry has missed, warmth to his smile that feels so familiar Harry melts a bit under the attention.

When the mattress is fitted in the frame, Harry wipes the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. “Do you need help putting the sheets on?”

“What?” Zayn asks, startled, caught staring at Harry’s abdomen.

Harry straightens his shirt and refuses to acknowledge the swoop in his stomach.

“Sheets. Do you need help putting them on?”

“Nah,” Zayn kicks a wooden leg. “I put the sheets in the wash, but I can’t be bothered to get them right now.”

“Alright,” Harry nods.

They survey their work together. The desk and chair are pushed into the corner by the bathroom door and the bookshelf sits beside that. Zayn’s room is the most decorated and elaborate room in the small flat.

Harry stares at the art on Zayn’s wall before resigning himself to the fact that Zayn’s not going to ask him to stay.

“I should go.”

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

They stare at each other for a beat before cracking up.

“I would love some dinner,” Harry says, smiling.

“Don’t feel obligated,” Zayn says. “Just because I conned you into helping me doesn’t mean you have to stay any longer.”

“Well now I feel like that was a pity invite,” Harry teases.

“It wasn’t, but I’m not even sure I have food in the cupboards.”

Harry laughs, unsurprised. “Well, if the invitation still stands, I would love to stay for a bit – even if it’s only for a beer.”

“Now that,” Zayn says with a smile, “I do have.”

 

Harry’s stuffed to the brim with sushi and beer, splayed out on Zayn’s beanbag.

“If I have one more cucumber roll, I’ll explode,” Harry announces.

Zayn shoves the takeaway box under Harry’s nose again. “Then have an avocado one.”

“Zayn,” Harry whines. “Don’t tempt me.”

“There’s only five rolls left. We can do it.”

Harry scrunches up his face, trying to choose between a sweet potato roll, avocado roll, and cucumber roll. In the end he chooses a sweet potato and cucumber roll. “The last three are yours,” he tells him.

Zayn foregoes his chopsticks in favour of slathering them with wasabi and popping them straight into his mouth.

“I forgot you ate sushi so disgustingly.”

“Disgusting?” Zayn outrages, mouth full of rice and seaweed. “You still eat tongue first.”

“I do not.” Harry consciously keeps his tongue firmly in his mouth as he drops a roll into his mouth. He washes it down with the rest of his beer, setting the can on the floor beside the other empty one. “So what’s new?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s new’?” Zayn challenges.

“I don’t know.” Harry hangs his head over the back of the beanbag and stares at the front door. “Catch me up on the last seven years of your life.”

Zayn’s quiet long enough that Harry wonders if he heard him.

“Want another beer?”

“You trying to get me drunk, Malik?”

“Are you driving?”

“Nope,” Harry says. “Walked here, didn’t I?” Harry sits up and tries to rearrange himself so he can face Zayn properly. “I’ll take another beer though, thanks.”

Zayn comes back with two beers, handing one to Harry and cracking one open for himself. He tilts his head back and drinks and Harry can’t quite keep his eyes off of how Zayn’s neck works to swallow.

“Where’s Waliyha living?”

“She’s doing summer classes so she’s living at the uni.”

“Oh, she’s quite close then.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. She’s wicked busy though.” Zayn licks his lips then stares down at his beer and places it on the arm of the sofa. “She’s working as a server for this catering business while she studies and now that she’s dating Niall she’s seeing him a bunch as well.”

“They seem like a good fit though.”

“He’s old,” Zayn teases. “Nah, he’s good. They’re good together from what I’ve seen and he’s really respectful, like,” Zayn readjusts himself on the sofa. “For their first date he picked her up from my place to pretend that we lived together.”

“You’re the least intimidating person,” Harry says.

Zayn scrunches up his face in what Harry thinks is supposed to be menacing.

“He brought her home an hour before curfew.”

“Oh my God.”

“I know!” Zayn looks absolutely delighted. “I thought the date went terribly or something, but it turns out he was only petrified of making a bad impression on me.”

“That sounds like Niall.”

“Yeah, it was funny. They went for brunch the next day and she told him about how it was an act.”

“That’s cute.” Harry’s nearly done his third beer. He didn’t intend on drinking too much, but he feels like there’s no point in stopping now that he’s started. “How did you meet Jake?”

“He’s a teaching assistant for the French department at Salford. We met in the loo.”

“Is that allowed?”

Zayn lifts his eyebrows. “Going to the loo? It’s encouraged really. Better than the floor.”

“Don’t be a smart arse,” Harry grumbles. “I meant for a student to date a teacher.”

“Technically he’s a teaching assistant. And technically I’m a graduate student.”

“So if the university found out, you wouldn’t get in trouble?”

“Probably not?” Zayn drinks the remainder of his beer and sets it on the floor. “We’ve only been dating a few months though.”

“Are you exclusive?”

“Why?” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows. “Are you and Mariah not?”

“We very much are thank you,” Harry says primly.

“I think we are too.”

Harry laughs, “You think?”

Zayn shrugs, unbothered. “I’m getting another drink, do you want one?”

“What time is it?” Harry checks his phone while Zayn’s in the kitchen and sees it’s only half nine. “Holy fuck, I think I may be kinda drunk.”

“I’ve got rum and Pepsi or gin and some orange juice, but it may be off.”

“I hate that you still drink Pepsi.”

“Coke tastes like raisins and vanilla and Pepsi has a sharper taste.”

“You read that off a WikiHow when we were kids!”

Zayn’s laugh rings throughout the flat. “That doesn’t make it any less true!”

Harry groans, but relents. “I’ll have a rum and Pepsi, I suppose.”

Harry scrubs his hand over his face and sees if he has any messages. There are three SnapChats from Mariah along with a message telling him that they’re going to a different bar to get more drinks. Harry can’t find it in himself to make an appearance in front of her friends. He feels covered in sweat and he needs a good shower to wipe away the exhaustion he feels.

Zayn comes back with a tall glass of rum and Pepsi. The ice cubes clink against the glass in the most inviting manner.

“I can’t remember the last time I had rum,” Harry says. “It was probably when we were dating to be honest.”

“No.” Zayn drags out the word. “You must have had it after that.”

“I honestly don’t think so,” Harry drinks from the bendy straw Zayn’s provided. It’s lovely, Harry thinks with a happy sigh, he doesn’t even have to sit up.

“Why? You love rum.”

“I hate rum,” Harry shudders. He proves his point by taking another sip. “I only drank it because you did and I think you ruined it for me.” Harry takes on a dramatic tone to explain, “Boy associates rum with his old childhood sweetheart and never drinks it again.”

“Oh, shut up.” Zayn’s smile is full of mirth. “Want to watch a film or something?”

 

Harry drags his drunken arse home just before midnight.

It takes three tries to unlock the front door and when he comes in, Mariah’s leaning against the counter with a bag of frozen peas against her forehead.

“You alright?” He asks, immediately concerned. He tries to take the peas from her to inspect her head, but she dodges away from him.

“I’m fine, nothing’s hurt. I’m only a little drunk and can already feel the inevitable headache.”

“Oh. How long have you been home?”

Mariah leans into the arm that Harry wraps around her. “Five minutes maybe? I thought you were asleep upstairs if I’m honest.”

“Nope. I’m right here.”

Harry kisses her forehead. It’s ice cold, but still makes his stomach swoop. She smells like pub and chips, lingering perfume clinging to her neck. Harry will never get over the way she makes his heart race.

“Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah, it was great. Florence ended up inviting her boyfriend to the pub and he brought some of his friends.”

“Anyone I should be jealous of?”

“They were all rugged men with really burly beards and huge biceps.” She kisses the center of his chest through his hoodie. “You know I like them frail.”

“Hey, I’m strong.”

“Oh yeah?” Mariah puts the peas on the counter by Harry’s hip. “Prove it.”

Harry tosses Mariah over his shoulder and races up the stairs.

+

“So,” Mariah starts, shoving half a strawberry in her mouth, “I forgot to ask you where you were last night.”

“I was at Zayn’s.”

“The whole night?” Mariah picks up the rest of the strawberry and eats that as well. “Was Jake there?”

Harry flips a pancake in the pan. “Nope. I actually don’t know where he was.”

“Do they not live together?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. He can’t see Mariah, but he can feel her stare on his back. “They’ve only been dating for a bit.”

“What did you do?”

Harry’s been trying very hard not to take this as an interrogation. He fails.

“Why are you giving me the third degree?”

“I’m not. I’m just curious as to what you got up to.” Harry ignores the defensive tone in her voice and pointedly does not respond to her. “You were really drunk when you got home.”

“So were you,” Harry reminds her with more sharpness than he intended.

When Mariah doesn’t do anything more than huff under her breath, Harry relents. He puts the spatula down and turns to face his girlfriend.

“We drank beer and rum and then watched _Step Brothers_ while we talked about our sisters and our mums.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Well I don’t appreciate how you’re accusing me.”

Mariah scowls. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Harry turns back to the pancakes and puts all three on a plate for Mariah. “Do you want butter and syrup?”

“I’ll put some jam on,” she mumbles.

The chair makes a screeching sound when she scoots it backwards. Harry’s eyes linger on her bare thighs.

“I’m not trying to come off as defensive,” Harry starts. “But you don’t have to ask me a million questions about it.”

“I’m not asking a million questions. I’m interested.”

“You’re never this interested in what I do with Liam or Niall.”

Mariah opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but she slathers jam on the pancake.

When she does open her mouth, Harry’s surprised by her change of subject.

“I was thinking of getting pedicures with Gemma and Anne on Monday. Did you want to come?”

Harry pours batter into the pan and waits for the sizzle to die down before answering. “I’ve got work from one ‘til close.”

“Seriously?” Mariah sighs. “We should also look at our schedules to see when Egypt works.”

“When did you want to go again?”

“I thought we decided September.”

Harry stops himself from rolling his eyes at Mariah’s tone. There’s no reason for her to be as annoyed with him as she is. Knowing her, it will fade as fast as it came on with no explanation or apology. It’s got to be a workplace irritation that she’s taking out on him, he decides.

“Yeah, that should work,” Harry says absently. “We should plan a date night again, soon.”

“When are you free?”

“Um… I think I have next Thursday off and on Friday I work the opening so I’ll be home before six.” Harry scratches his stomach. “I work the weekend and Monday I work nights-”

“Would it work better if I told you when I was free?”

Harry snorts at himself. “Probably.”

“Thursday, please. I have a meeting until three, but we can go see that new Christopher Nolan film before dinner?”

“Can we make out in the back?”

Mariah smiles what seems like the first genuine smile all morning.

“If you play your cards right.”

+

Harry’s lips are sore and puffy when they leave the theatre.

“I shouldn’t have eaten so much popcorn,” Mariah sighs.

Harry stops her by the waist and pins her so she’s against a random storefront wall. She keeps her mouth firmly shut at first, but once Harry presses up against her, she crumbles. Her hands go to his neck and she tugs him in. A low moan escapes her throat and goes straight to his groin.

“Mmm,” Harry grins. He licks his lips and kisses her once more. “Buttery.”

Mariah laughs, smacking her hand against his chest to let her go.

“You’re an idiot.” She tangles her hand in Harry’s and leans into him. “Did you like the movie?”

“Best movie I’ve seen in ages.”

“You hardly watched it,” Mariah accuses. “You spent more time trying to get your hand up my skirt than following the plot.”

“You’re hard to resist,” Harry says. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”

“Green Lettuce? I want lentils.”

“Your wish is my command.”

+

Niall calls Harry up on the last Friday of June to invite him to a lad’s night.

Mariah seems unbothered, already in her pajamas with her hair up and her makeup wiped off her face. She kisses him goodbye and reassures him that she’ll call up a gal pal for a wine night and with that reassurance, Harry turns up at Niall’s house with a 6 pack of beers and wide smile.

“Welcome to mi casa,” Niall greets. His breath smells like beer when he kisses Harry’s cheek.

“Bit of late notice, Nialler.” Harry follows Niall through his house. “You’re lucky I was free.”

“Oh please. The only person you ever spend time with is the missus.”

Harry’s smile turns into a smirk. “Not much different from you, then. It’s almost been a month since I’ve seen you.”

Niall holds the fridge open for Harry to deposit his beers.

“If you stopped being such a hermit and came out with Mariah, you’d see me a lot more.”

“Those are work functions,” Harry dismisses.

“They’re open mic nights, fundraisers, and going to clubs to support our fellow DJs. It’s not a hardship, Harold.”

Harry glares at him in favour of answering. He has this discussion with Mariah at least twice a month and it never ends well. Harry always feels like a bit of an intruder, a bit of an outcast, when it seems like the entire station goes to these events together. It’s not that Capital Manchester aren’t nice people, it’s just that it’s a close company that runs on functions and heavy out of office involvement. They always welcome Harry with cheers and drinks, but it doesn’t stop the nagging voice in his head telling him that he doesn’t entirely belong.

“Is Willie home?”

“He’s whacking off somewhere,” Niall grunts.

“I’m right here you bastard.” Willie walks into the kitchen in black track bottoms and a Britney Spears tour shirt from 2004.

“Nice shirt,” Harry snorts.

“It’s Nialler’s,” Willie huffs. “I’m surprised there’s not come stains all over it.”

Harry barks out a laugh, shocked and delighted.

“Don’t be a cunt,” Niall scolds. “Do you want a beer or that watered shit you brought?”

“You know I hate Guinness,” Harry pouts. It disappears as soon as Niall places one of the beers Harry brought in front of him.

“Zayn and Jake are coming over too by the way. And I invited Liam, but I think he’s staying home ‘cause Cheryl goes to London Monday.”

“Why’s she going this time?”

“She’s trying to make another album,” Niall says with an eye roll. Willie cracks a mocking smirk. “She should’ve stopped after Only Human, but.”

“Are you going to play it?” Harry asks and takes a seat on one of the bar stools.

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Niall shakes his head. “As much as I love my job, I hate the politics of it.”

“Not this again,” Willie sighs.

“It’s true! You’ve got to play shitty, arbitrary, repetitive music that’s sole purpose is to make record companies millions of dollars.” Niall pushes his fringe off his forehead and pops off the cap of a bottle of beer. “They get hours of radio play compared to smaller artists with better music solely because they’re ‘more famous’ and negotiate air time with the company.”

“You can always make passive aggressive comments,” Harry suggests innocently.

“Yeah then have Payno murder me for insulting his girlfriend?”

“I can’t believe they’re still together,” Willie comments. “Like, relationships with famous people never last.”

“Posh and Becks,” Harry points out at the same time Niall calls him another expletive.

“Either way. It’s none of our business,” Niall says with an air of finality.

Thankfully, the buzzer for the gate goes and the small amount of tension in the room dissipates. Niall and Willie fight like an old married couple half the time, but their shared love for Guinness and Ireland outshines any small spat. Willie goes to let them in with his drink still in his hand.

Niall stares at Harry for a beat before he points the neck of his bottle towards Harry. “Have you talked to Zayner at all?”

“Zayner?” Harry repeats with raised brows. “Sounds like you have.”

“Stop avoiding the subject. I’m just curious.”

“I helped him build some furniture a while ago and we went to the pub the other day, but other than that we just text a bit.”

“That’s good.” The front door opens and Willie’s loud greeting shields the guests from Niall’s whispered, “Wali told me a bit about your relationship and it sounds like it was a bit shit at the end.”

Harry frowns.

Surely, Waliyha only knows Zayn’s side of it and he’s almost certain that what she observed was from when it still happened – when the wound was still fresh.

“It wasn’t the best way to end things, but,” Harry shrugs. There’s a terrible pit in his stomach. “We’re both happy now, right?”

Niall takes a generous swig of his drink as the footsteps get louder. “There are the men of the hour!” The look on his face tells Harry that this conversation isn’t over that easily.

Jake and Zayn walk into the kitchen hand-in-hand. Harry’s eyes linger on the way their fingers fit together, but he quickly averts his eyes up to their smiling faces. Niall corrals them into hugs, loudly talking about the new ping pong table he just got. They make their way to the basement and Niall draws up a complicated diagram of how everyone will end up being paired with everyone. He grumps about how Liam would have made the teams even, but sighs loudly when Zayn asks why he couldn’t make it.

Harry’s buzzed by the time he’s on his second game. He sat out the first round and ended up drinking more than he anticipated due to nerves. Jake has been cordial and engaged when Harry’s talked to him, yet every time Harry tries to catch his eye for a friendly smile, Jake seems to be avoiding him. He tries to run through anything and everything he could have possibly done, but nothing comes to mind. They got along pretty well at the bar and he hasn’t seen Jake since then. Harry’s at a loss.

So Harry finished his first beer in record time. Niall was so delighted he ran upstairs to grab the rest of Harry’s beer and put it in the basement fridge. With no ping pong to play, Harry drank his second beer nearly as fast and by the time he was up to play with Willie as his partner, he was a little wobbly and a little woozy. They lose spectacularly and Niall trades spots with Zayn so he’s on Jake’s team and Zayn’s with Harry.

Their game doesn’t go much better.

The whole “sip every time you miss a point” rule is getting them all tipsy fast and when Harry tries to swat at what would be the game winning point, he missteps and crashes to the ground.

He pops to his feet quickly, rubbing at his arse.

“You booze you lose, Haz,” Niall reminds him, howling with laughter.

“Don’t use that against me,” Harry pouts.

“What does that mean?” Zayn inquires.

“Haz has the stupidest tattoo.” Niall’s bent in half laughing, holding onto the table for support.

There’s a quirk to Jake’s lips as if he wants to be in on the joke, but Harry knows that he really has no idea.

So he yanks off his jumper and reveals the chicken scratch tattoo on his arm.

“You have a mermaid pussy on your arm,” Zayn tells him.

Harry brushes his fingers over it fondly. “Yep. I got the saying done after a raging birthday party for one of Niall’s friends.”

“We were driving home the next morning – Mariah’s asleep in the back, Harry’s in the passenger seat – and he just forces me to pull over and gets sick all over the road.”

“No way,” Zayn laughs.

Harry covers his face with his hands. His cheeks are hot.

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who got a tattoo to commemorate the moment,” Niall retorts. “Now finish your drinks, losers.”

Zayn clinks his can against Harry’s before they tilt their heads back and drink. There’s an awful sense of déjà-vu when they put their cans back on the table and grin at each other.

“Willie can sub in for me, I’ve gotta wee,” Harry announces.

He climbs the steps two at a time to go to the bathroom on the main floor. A few years ago, Niall caught Mariah giving Harry a blowjob in the basement bathroom and banned them from using it ever since. It’s a joke – Harry’s sure – but that hasn’t stopped him from never using that bathroom again.

He stops by the kitchen to get himself a glass of water and when he turns around, Jake’s there.

“Hey,” he says a little awkwardly.

“Don’t tell Niall I’m drinking water,” Harry jokes. When he’s met with confusion, he elaborates, “Niall has a strict ‘alcohol only’ rule on lad’s night.”

Thankfully, Jake seems to actually find that funny.

Harry scratches his head while Jake gets a glass of water for himself. He’s unsure whether or not he should leave or stay.

“If you don’t mind,” Jake starts right as Harry’s decided to head back to the basement, “can you chat for a minute?”

“Um,” Harry glances around nervously. “Of course.”

“I wanted to thank you for helping Zayn set up his furniture last week.”

“Oh, it was no problem.” Harry takes a sip from his water, feeling guilty. Objectively, he has no reason to, but it’s like passing through the full body scanners at the airport and expecting it to go off. Still, Harry’s not sure how much of the night Zayn told him about. “We were pretty quick with them, so that was nice.”

“Yeah, he said.” Jake presses his cup against the ice dispenser. They watch the cubes fall into the water together. “And um, I really appreciate you hanging out with him after.”

“Of course. I mean, it was fun to catch up and stuff.”

Jake’s lips quirk. “It means a lot. To him and to me,” he says. “Zayn doesn’t know a lot of people here so I know it meant a lot to him that you were willing to come over and help.”

“Anytime. If you guys want to grab drinks or if you want to hang out, I’m almost always free.”

“That’d be great.” Jake’s smile is so big Harry can actually see his teeth.

Harry can’t contain his excitement at this development. As much as he would like to think that he doesn’t care what people think about him, he loves approval.

“We should trade numbers,” Harry enthuses, “if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Yes. Here.” He hands Harry his phone – the new Samsung Galaxy. Harry tries not to be a phone snob, but he has to ask Jake how to input contact information.

“Everything okay in here?” Zayn asks cautiously, appearing in the doorframe at the top of the basement stairway.

“Yep,” Harry grins, handing Jake his phone back. He swings an arm around Jake’s shoulders and hauls him against his side.

“We were discussing our masterplan to runaway together. Guess that’s shot now that we’ve been caught.”

Harry’s eyes light up in glee. “Oh, I like you.”

+

For the life of him, Harry can’t remember why he agreed to go to brunch with Gemma.

Or, that’s not entirely true.

The promise of free food and mimosas before work – at least for him – was a motivating factor in accepting her invitation. Plus, Ellis looks adorable in a polka dotted pink dress and a big yellow bow in her hair. Harry wipes his fingers on his napkin before picking up his camera and taking a few photographs of her eating.

She’s his favourite muse. He can take pictures of her until she falls asleep and even then, that doesn’t stop him from muting the sound of the shutter and clicking away.

Still, the grapefruit mimosas and endless camera roll of Ellis doesn’t make up for the absolute grilling Gemma’s laying on him.

“You’re just so good with her,” Gemma says, motioning to between her daughter and Harry. “I don’t understand why you don’t want some of your own.”

“I do want my own,” Harry counters. He sets his camera down carefully. “But not right now.”

“But why?” Gemma whines.

“Because we’re not in that place yet.”

“Well get in that place,” Gemma says. She stabs at a chunk of omelette and shoves it aggressively into her mouth. “I don’t want Ellis to have a big age gap with her cousins.”

Ellis screws her eyes shut and sticks her tongue out at her mother. There’s blueberry pancake all mushed up in there.

“Ellis Louise, put that away.”

“That’s very unbecoming, Ells,” Harry agrees.

Ellis swallows her food and sticks her tongue back out at them. When Gemma scowls and waves her fork again, Ellis giggles high and loud. Harry, endlessly enamoured with her big dimples and bright blue eyes, can’t hold in his giggle either.

“Seriously Gemma, I can’t imagine having kids right now that just…” Harry shakes his head. His mind whirls a mile a minute, gathering bits and pieces of conversations he’s had with family and friends in the past. “Mariah’s family would want us to be married before we have children and if I proposed tomorrow it would still be a year until we married.”

“You can have a shotgun wedding,” Gemma supplies. “Or you could elope in Spain.”

“She’d kill me if we didn’t invite her family. We’d have to get her brother in from Egypt and some of her cousins and aunties as well. She’d want a big wedding even though she would insist that it was her dad’s idea and then because she’s progressive she would want to wait another couple of months before we started trying for a child.”

Gemma blinks at him. A string of brown hair has fallen from behind her ear and sits across her left eye.

“Well,” she sets her fork down and crosses her arms above her stomach. “You’ve sure put a lot of thought into this.”

“Not really,” Harry shrugs. “I’m just saying what I think will happen. But I’m not proposing any time soon.”

“What does that mean, Harry? I hate that. Any time soon.”

“Soon means within three months.” At Gemma’s gleeful face, Harry corrects himself. “In this case it means a year.”

“A year?” Gemma pouts.

“I want to be stable. I want to be the breadwinner.”

“Well good bloody luck when you’re working at Selfridges.”

It stings, but it’s not like he hasn’t heard it before. “Low blow,” he mumbles. Gemma opens her mouth like she’s knows she’s crossed a line. Harry’s quick to speak over her though. “I’m not in a rush and I don’t think she is either.”

With that, Harry cuts into Ellis’s pancake for her and pushes the plate closer to the edge of the table.

They eat in silence for a while. Harry gets another grapefruit mimosa just to spite Gemma and when his plate is almost clear, she finally speaks up again.

“So how are things with Zayn?”

“They’re good,” Harry says. “It’s nice seeing him again – being friends again.”

“You were never really friends, Haz.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Gemma shrugs and sips her lemon water. Her stomach is so large she has to twist her body in order to get it.

“I’m not suggesting anything. When you told me a month ago that you ran into him, I thought that’s all it was.” Harry knows that Gemma’s tone is meant to be light, but over the years Harry has become an expert in hearing what she really means. “I didn’t know you kept in touch.”

“His sister is dating one of my best friends.”

“I know,” Gemma insists. “I’m just worried that you’re-”

“What? Going to cheat on my girlfriend?” Harry bites, offended.

“No!” Gemma tries to reach across the table, but her bump stops her. “Harry, I was going to say I’m worried that you’re idealizing what your relationship with Zayn was like.”

“Our relationship was fine.”

“Your relationship was immature,” she corrects. “I don’t mean that in a negative way so don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m saying that in hindsight, you’re probably remembering all the good things about Zayn and not the bad.”

“The bad was that he was moving to Edinburgh.”

“The bad was that he didn’t know how to communicate.”

Defensively, Harry draws up his shoulders. “That was both of us and it was a long time ago.”

“I know it was and I’m sure you’ve both matured a hell of a lot. I know that you have.”

It doesn’t seem like a compliment. It seems like a prelude to something he doesn’t want to hear.

“But Harry.” Gemma glances at her daughter – lost in her own world of mashing pancakes before shoving them in her mouth – and lowers her voice. “I remember when he left, okay? I had to come home from uni for the weekend and mum was worried you weren’t going to go to school. You stopped golfing with Robin for a month… You holed yourself up in your room at night and stopped talking to Jonny and Alice. You got drunk by yourself and left really weepy voice messages.”

Irritation washes over Harry in an angry wave. He wants to shove his chair from the table and throw his food at the wall. He wants to tell her that he remembers that, that it was a lot worse than what she knows and that he could hardly eat he was so sad. He wants to tell her that he wasted his paychecks on train tickets he never got on – that one time Jonny dropped him off, but had waited in the carpark because he knew Harry would never actually go. He wants to remind Gemma of his journals of song lyrics, of the EP he almost recorded, and of the times Harry was in a foreign country, crying about the boy who broke his heart long after it happened.

Instead, he folds his hands in his lap and forces himself to look at her. She looks so much like their mother – the big eyes, round chin, and concern written in every pore – that Harry has to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“I know, Gem. Can you drop it?”

+

There are plenty of things that Harry had forgotten about Zayn.

Like the way he pushes his tongue against his teeth just before he laughs. It’s as if he’s unable to contain it, bursting out of him in a high pitched cackle before settling into what sounds more like a giggle. His eyes reduce to puffy slits, head wobbling side to side. His nose scrunches up and he looks so young that Harry forgets he’s a man not a child now – he’s all carefully maintained beard and sharp jaw.

He forgot how Zayn insists on drinking black coffee and quietly complains about how bitter it is. Zayn still takes hours to respond to a single text message, but sends three or four in quick succession. He forgot how Zayn does his hair even when he’s going to throw a beanie over it and the piles of clothes that accumulate on the floor from holding an outfit up to the mirror before chucking it away.

Memories come back in bits and pieces and it’s easy to fall back into a friendship.

+

Harry shows up to the pitch to a chorus of hoots and hollers.

“This is football, not a best legs competition,” Zayn calls. He’s standing with Jake and a few other men Harry doesn’t know.

The tight black jeans are far from the short black shorts Harry is wearing to play footie in, but Harry throws away the practicality on account of how good he looks in them. It’s perfectly normal to admire when your mates look good, Harry reasons.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” He laughs and it trickles the anxiety out of his chest.

“It wasn’t meant as one,” Zayn snorts. He pulls Harry into a one-armed hug before letting Harry drop his bag next to his feet.

“Lads, this is Harry,” Jake introduces. He’s wearing baggy grey joggers rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt is loose and the love bite on his neck looks small, but fresh. “This is Shae, Matt, Alfie, and Louis. This is Harry, he’s completing our teams.”

“Is Zayn not playing?”

Louis, the brunet with a sharp smile and confident stature, laughs so hard his face goes red.

“Shut it, Lou,” Zayn hisses.

“He thinks you’re gonna play.” Louis wipes at an invisible tear between his laughter. “Mate, exactly how well do you know Zayn?”

Defensively, Harry draws up his shoulders. “You used to play in school.”

“He got worse,” Jake supplies. The other boys laugh and Harry doesn’t know whether he should or not. Zayn doesn’t look genuinely offended, but he doesn’t look too pleased either. “So there’s no way you could be any worse than him.”

“I’m shit too,” Harry says because he probably should. He knows more about the game than his talents would display. “Don’t know if you want me on your team.”

“Good thing you’re with Lou, then.” Zayn smirks as he says it, giving Louis a look that seems like more than a warning than anything.

 

Harry may be dying.

His throat burns and his lungs ache and he’s pretty sure his legs have tripled in size. His shirt is soaked with sweat and his calves feel like they may fall off any second. He drinks quickly, long glugs that have him gasping in between. A sharp smack between his shoulder blades jolts him.

“You were actually good, mate.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, surprised by the sincerity of Louis’ words. “We lost by a landslide.”

Louis shrugs and shakes the sweat out of the tips of his hair. “Shae teaches PE and Alfie runs marathons for fun. Matt does shit all so I was supposed to even both of your useless arses out.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

“I play for the Bolton Wanderers.”

Harry’s eyes bug out of his head. “The Bolton Wanderers like the football club, Bolton Wanderers?”

“I mean, it’s not the Premiere League, but that’s the one.”

“Holy shit.”

Louis’s laugh is light and flattered. “So how do you know Zayn?”

Harry glances over to where Zayn is, standing with an arm around Jake’s sweaty shoulders. They look happy, relaxed.

“We went to sixth form together.” It’s not enough, Harry knows, but he feels exposed under Louis’s curiosity. “How do you know him?”

“We were roomies in first year up in Edinburgh. Zayn and I tore up the town, broke hundreds of hearts.”

Harry pretends that that doesn’t twist a knife in his guts. Instead, he schools his face and asks, “You went to school?”

“Oi.” Louis’ face is stern, defensive. “Just ‘cause I play footie for a living doesn’t mean I’m uneducated.”

Harry blanches, grasping for words. “I – I, mean – I know. I was surprised because I didn’t know – I mean Zayn never-”

“Your face,” Louis cackles. “I’m fucking with you. I only went until March before I was scouted and left to go play professionally.” Louis looks positively delighted and he ruffles Harry’s hair in a show of affection. “God, your face went funny.”

“I thought I offended you,” Harry pouts, shaking Louis off.

“That’s sweet.” Louis’s lips twist into a smirk. It looks good on him, natural. “I’m not easily offended.”

“That’s a lie,” Zayn chirps and he’s so close to Harry he can feel Zayn’s chest against his arm. Zayn inhales before fanning his face. “You both smell wretched by the way.”

Louis squawks and pounces on him. They tumble to the ground together, Zayn in a headlock and Louis snickering like a mad man.

 

Harry’s showered, made dinner, and is half way through Black Panther by the time Mariah finally, finally, comes home.

It’s not that Harry is irritated with her – it’s just that he’s been home for two hours and she hasn’t responded to any of his text messages or calls and worry has bled into annoyance.

He waits until the sound of her footfalls sound close enough to the sofa before he turns off the television.

“Where were you?” Harry says, impatiently.

“Hello to you too,” Mariah says.

“Hi.” Harry turns around with his elbow resting on the back of the sofa. Mariah’s short black shorts and low cut t-shirt catches him off guard. “Where were you?”

“I was out with Florence,” Mariah shrugs. She turns her back on him and stalks to the kitchen, opening the fridge once she gets there.

Harry follows. “I didn’t know you were going out.”

“You never asked.”

The silence is thick, weighted.

Mariah purses her lips at the pasta Harry’s left on the hob. It was good when Harry ate it an hour ago – he almost says as much.

“You could have texted me,” Harry presses. His skin is hot under his shirt. He hates bickering, especially with Mariah since she’s just as calm as he is.

“My phone died.”

“Did you not charge it before you left?”

Mariah shakes her head, “Unlike you I don’t have people who urgently need my attention 24/7.”

Harry folds his arms over his chest. “What does that mean?”

“It means what I said.” She grabs a bowl from the dishrack and scoops pasta into it. “I didn’t think you were going to be home until later, anyway.”

“I told you I was playing football.”

Mariah speaks slowly, like an adult patronizing their child. “I know you were playing football. What I didn’t know was if you were going out after.”

“Why would I go out after?”

“Because you always seem to be out.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re out just as much, if not more.”

“That’s for work. I have appearances to make and charities to go to and you’re always invited.”

“I don’t always want to go to a show after a 9 hour shift of dealing with people all day.”

“Okay.” Mariah turns back to the pasta and covers the noodles in sauce.

“If I was going out after I would have told you,” Harry defends.

“You can say that in hindsight, but I know that’s not true.”

“It is. I always tell you when I’m going out. I write it on the calendar.”

“Jesus. Well I’m sorry for having spontaneous plans that interrupt your meticulously planned ones.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying then? You always drag everything out.”

Flabbergasted, Harry throws his hands up. “I’m trying to have a conversation because I’m annoyed, Mariah.”

“Do you want me to apologize?”

“That’d be nice.”

Mariah scoffs and puts her hands on her hips. “Then I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission to leave the house-”

“That’s not-”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t home when you needed me-”

“Ry-”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting on my knees for you the second you walked through the door.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Harry says. His accent becomes thicker, words heavier. Anger sits like lead on his tongue. “Mariah, where is this coming from?”

Aggressively, Mariah presses the buttons on the microwave.

“Mariah,” Harry presses, taking a step closer.

“What, Harry? I said I was sorry.”

“Why are you so defensive?”

“Because I came home and you immediately jumped down my throat.”

Petulantly, Harry blocks her path to the kitchen table. “I didn’t jump down your throat.”

“God, can you not take responsibility for anything?”

Harry counts out four microwave beats before Mariah scoffs again.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I was with Florence. I thought it would be a quick outing, but we got distracted and I lost track of time and by the time I went to check my phone, it was dead.”

The microwave beeps, but neither of them pays attention to it.

For the first time in what must be ages, Harry looks at her, really looks at her and sees the exhaustion on her face. There are poorly concealed circles under her eyes and her frown lines look more pronounced. Her hair is frizzy around her forehead and her nail polish is uncharacteristically chipped.

“That’s fine. I-” Harry takes a deep breath and all of the fight in him dissipates. “I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. I think I was just really excited to spend time with you because it feels like we’re on different wavelengths.”

Mariah smiles sadly, nodding. “I know, I hate it.”

The microwave beeps again. This time Mariah retrieves her food.

“We should bake cookies or something before I leave for South Wales.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. And then because that seems insufficient, he adds, “I would love that.”

Mariah nods once again, sharply. “I’m going to eat dinner then take a bath, I think.”

“Alright.” Uselessly, Harry taps his fingers against his thigh. “Do you want some company?”

“No thanks.” Mariah grabs a fork from the dishrack. It’s the same one Harry just used and he’s about to say that and attempt to break the tension, but Mariah beats him to talking. “Think I’m going to turn in after that, I’m exhausted.”

She kisses his cheek as she passes and Harry pretends that it doesn’t sting just a little.

+

“A little birdie told me you were spending time with Zayn Malik, again.”

Harry freezes with his nacho halfway to his mouth. His mother doesn’t sound accusing necessarily, but she definitely doesn’t sound as warm as she normally does. Harry doesn’t need to see her face to know that she’s gently pressing him to talk about it.

“I told you that I saw him,” Harry says. He crunches the nacho directly into the speaker in the hopes that she gets the hint.

“I know you saw him,” Anne sighs. “But I didn’t know you were spending so much time with him.”

“I’m not _spending so much time with him_.” Harry rolls his eyes and slumps down on the sofa. “I’m spending a normal amount of time with him.”

Anne hums on the other side of the phone, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Gemma should learn how to keep her mouth shut,” he grumbles. He brushes crumbs off his chest. “She always gossips to you about everything going on in my life.”

“Your sister wasn’t the one who told me, Harry. Mariah did.”

Harry’s system is flooded with discomfort and a feeling akin to betrayal. He doesn’t like the idea of Mariah and his mum gossiping about him no matter how short or long the conversation was. “When did she tell you?”

“Last week when we went clothes shopping for Gemma’s baby.”

“That baby’s not even born yet,” Harry mutters. He shoves another nacho in his mouth. The cheese has hardened significantly since he made them, but it doesn’t stop him from eating another one while he waits for his mum to talk.

“I have a feeling it’s a boy, though. And don’t try to change the subject.”

“There’s no subject to change,” Harry dismisses. He inspects his cuticles and picks guacamole out of his nail bed.

“You know I worry about you, Harry.” Harry’s sure if Anne was here right now she’d be frowning at the corners of her lips with concern written in her eyes.

Harry sighs for what must be the umpteenth time. They’ve had this conversation on various occasions and it always ends with Anne encouraging Harry to go back to school or pursue something he’s actually passionate about. Mariah has slowly, but surely stopped mentioning it – only when they get proper smashed do they end up talking about their dreams and what they wanted to be when they were younger.

“You don’t have to worry, mum. Honest.”

“You know I always will. You’re my baby.”

“Mum,” Harry blushes.

He remembers his first day of sixth form when he thought he was too cool for his mum to take his picture on the first day of school. He had a fancy new tie and Robin had just bought him a new pair of shoes for school, but it didn’t stop him from repeatedly telling his mum to stop taking his photo. She fussed over his hair and called him baby with the mistiest eyes he had ever seen.

“It’s true,” she says with certainty. “You trust too easily. Remember Nick and his friends?”

“You loved Nick and his friends. They were good people. They were just a little wild.” Which is an understatement if Harry’s honest. There’s no way he’ll admit all of the shit he got up to with them at the end of year thirteen.

“You were seventeen and sneaking into pubs.”

“I was having fun,” Harry counters.

Anne laughs again, deep and comforting. “That’s one way to put it.” Her voice takes on a gentler tone when she says, “Be careful with who you trust and spend your time with.”

“I will, mum,” Harry says in a small voice.

+

So, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have a conversation about trusting Zayn a few hours before he’s due to come over.

Harry replays the conversation while washing the laundry, making lunch, and taking a shower.

His friendship with Zayn has been tentative at times, guarded at others, but overall, it’s a better friendship than Harry has had with other people he’s had a romantic relationship with. Zayn’s funny and easy to talk to and he’s always down for a beer and to chat about music. He’s less busy than Niall and closer than Jonny, so it makes sense that he invites Zayn over while Mariah’s on her business trip.

He’s just turning the temperature on the curry down when the doorbell rings. But instead of seeing Zayn on the other side of the door, two small arms wrap around his calves.

He stands there, shocked at the appearance of his heavily pregnant sister and sweetly smiling niece.

“Are you going to let us in?” Gemma asks, already pushing her way through the door.

Harry hoists Ellis on his hip and blows a raspberry against her cheek.

“Were you in the neighbourhood?”

Gemma slips out of her crocs and puts her hands on her wide hips. “No hello?”

“Hello,” Harry says automatically. “Were you in the neighbourhood?”

“Nah. Mum called and said she was worried about you getting lonely while Mariah’s away so I figured you could watch Ells for the night.”

“Spa night!” Ellis cheers.

Harry smiles wide for his niece despite the trepidation for Zayn’s impending arrival.

“Will you paint my nails?”

Ellis nods seriously and glances at Harry’s hands. Harry untucks an arm from under her and shows her his hand so she’s sufficiently distracted.

“I can watch Ells, but I never told mum I would be lonely.”

“Well y’know,” she shrugs and makes her way to the kitchen. “Mum worries. Feels like forever since you’ve seen her.”

“I saw her not even two weeks ago.”

Gemma makes an offended sound. “So what? You don’t want to see your niece?”

“Obviously I want to see my niece.” To prove his point he tosses Ellis in the air and catches her swiftly.

“Again!” She cries, tugging his hair sharply.

Harry obeys twice, relishing in the pure light that Ellis is.

“It’s actually you I don’t care to see.”

“Eff you,” she laughs.

“Hey now.” Harry faux-frowns at his sister. “Don’t use such foul language in front of Ellis, please.”

“She has no idea what that means.”

“Still,” Harry insists. He sets Ellis down and lets her waddle her way around.

Gemma waits an entire two seconds until she grabs the wooden spoon resting on top of the pot and gives the food a stir. “It smells good in here.” She leans down and sniffs. “Too bad I ate before dropping her off otherwise I would be all over this.”

“Oh, you’re dropping her off?”

Gemma lifts her chin and squares her shoulders. “I can take her home if you want, but that was my intention.” Harry scratches the back of his neck and glances at the two plates set on the table. “Why? Do you have company coming over?”

“Well,” Harry bites his lip and shrugs. “Yeah.”

Ellis wraps her arms around Gemma’s knee and squeezes. “Mumma, up.”

Gemma shushes her gently and crosses her arms over her chest. Harry rolls his eyes at Gemma’s attitude and takes his niece into his arms.

“Does mum know?” Gemma asks. “Because she made it sound like you were desperate for company.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head sharply. “She didn’t ask. I-”

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?”

“Zayn,” Harry tells her. He stalks his way to the door and opens it to reveal Zayn in a pair of ripped jeans and slouchy green shirt. He’s got a six pack in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.

“Hey,” Zayn grins. “Who’s this cutie?”

“Zayn stop, you’re making me blush.”

Zayn scoffs, but his eyes are soft; fond. “Idiot.”

“This is my niece, Ellis.” Harry bounces her on his hip, trying to get a smile out of her. Instead, she buries her face in his neck. “Say hello, please.”

Ellis’s voice is tiny and unsure when she lifts her head and mumbles, “Hello.”

“Hello.” And Harry wouldn’t say Zayn’s eyes sparkle, because that’s ridiculous, but they seem to shine as his grin widens. “M’Zayn. What’s your name?”

“Ellis,” she says quietly. She tucks her face back into Harry’s neck.

“So are we on babysitting duty tonight?”

“About that,” Harry starts. “Gemma’s going out with her husband tonight and brought Ellis over for me to watch. I didn’t-”

“Cool,” Zayn shrugs. “I love babysitting.”

“Really?” Harry asks. “‘Cause-”

“Harry, it’s fine. Honest.”

Harry’s stature relaxes. He readjusts his hold on Ellis and sets her on the ground. That is – until Gemma breezes into the room.

The tension is palpable as Gemma gives Zayn a once over. She eyes the beer in his hand, then in the blink of an eye she’s smiling like a lioness observing a newborn gazelle. “Hi Zayn.”

“Hey Gemma. How’s it going?”

“Fine, thanks.” She moves her gaze to Harry. “A word in the kitchen, please Harry.”

Harry’s nostrils flare as he exhales deeply.

“We’ll be right back.”

As soon as their out of earshot, Harry hisses, “You could not have made that anymore awkward.” He sits Ellis on the floor and lets her walk out of the room.

“I was as nice as he deserves.”

“Are you serious?” Harry gawks. “Gemma-”

“What are you doing?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth. “I – what do you mean?”

“Am I the only one who remembers what it was like when you broke up?”

“I’m so tired of people saying that.”

Gemma flicks her hair off her shoulder and straightens up. “Who else is saying that?”

“Mum.”

“Because we’re worried about it.”

Harry fidgets with his hands for half a second and then goes back to the pot of food on the stove.

“Worried about what?”

“You, Harry.”

Harry groans and runs his hands through his hair. “You don’t have to be. It’s different this time, we’re just friends.”

“But-”

“Give him a chance.” Gemma still looks wary. “Please.”

“Fine.”

Harry hugs his sister around the shoulders and gives her a tight squeeze.

“What am I supposed to do with Ellis? Logan made dinner reservations and it’s not-”

“I can still watch her,” Harry suggests.

Gemma’s silence allows the sound of Ellis’s high-pitched giggles to float into the room.

“She sounds like she likes Zayn,” Harry teases. “This can be his chance. Ask Ellis what she thinks of him after.”

“Ellis knows ten words,” Gemma sighs.

Harry imitates her sigh with a shit-eating grin. “She knows at least eleven.”

“You’re such an arse, honestly.”

Harry evades her smack, but manages to run into the table. It causes the whole thing to shake and Harry’s momentarily concerned with the wine glasses smashing.

“An arse you trust to watch your child!” He hollers, dodging her next swat and running into the living room.

 

Ellis is absolutely smitten with Zayn.

Once Gemma finally leaves with her long list of rules – no drinking until Ellis is put to bed, no cussing, no inappropriate movies, always have three eyes on her at all times, no sugar, no juice, no FUN – Ellis had clung to Zayn and refused to let Harry play with her. It took a lot of fake crying and a lot of real pouting before Zayn gave in and encouraged Ellis to sit with Harry instead of him.

Now, Zayn’s bouncing Ellis in his lap while humming a nonsensical tune. Her giggle is nonstop, smile huge as she holds onto his shirt collar with two tiny fists.

“She’s gonna vom,” Harry warns him.

“No way,” Zayn says. Then in a higher pitched baby voice, he smooshes his face up and crosses his eyes at Ellis. “You won’t puke on me, will you, beautiful?”

Ellis squeals even louder. “Again!”

“Again?” He sighs like he’s put out, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Harry’s heart grows ten sizes. Zayn’s so good with Ellis that it reminds him of when Safaa and Waliyha were in primary school and he would babysit them with Zayn. Zayn had always rushed Harry up the stairs while the girls were eating their snack. He would press Harry into the wall next to the landing – just left of a big family photograph from when Zayn was nine and missing a front tooth – and snog his face off until Harry was flushed and hard and panting for more. Waliyha would always threaten to tell on them for sneaking off, but as long as they gave her a package of sweets, she kept her mouth firmly shut.

Harry tucks the thought away.

“Are your arms sore yet?” Harry asks.

“Not-”

And just like that, Ellis tightens her fists in Zayn’s shirt, hauls her body forward, and with a sickening cough proceeds to vom all over Zayn’s shirt.

“-yet,” Zayn finishes. His face twists in disgust as he lifts Ellis up.

She moans weakly, automatically letting go of Zayn and reaching her arms out for Harry. There’s no sick on her shirt so Harry’s pulls her into his chest. Zayn’s still said nothing – looking at Harry with wide, fearful eyes. Harry’s afraid he may snap; may stand up off the sofa and start storming around the house.

Instead, he starts laughing. Properly laughing with his head thrown back and his eyes crinkled shut. Zayn’s mouth is wide and his hands clutch his knees as he bends his body with each shake.

All the air in Harry’s body leaves him in a huff. He joins in on Zayn’s laughter and squeezes Ellis to his chest.

“Not good,” Ellis moans. She smacks Harry on the collar lightly.

“What was that?” Harry asks, giggles still escape between his lips.

“Tummy,” Ellis says louder. Harry wipes under his eyes then rests his hand on her stomach. He rubs it in a circle and watches her face.

“Does your tummy hurt?”

Ellis nods and burrows her face in Harry’s neck.

“Do you wanna take a shower?” Harry offers Zayn.

“Might, yeah. I think it went down my collar.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Zayn huffs and stands, stretching his arms over his head.

Harry keeps his eyes firmly on Zayn’s face.

He carries Ellis with him while he grabs a clean shirt for Zayn. Then, because no one likes slipping into jeans after taking a shower, he yanks a pair of sweatpants out of his drawer and sets that on the bathroom counter for him as well.

“It’s kinda weird being in your bedroom,” Zayn admits, looking around. “It’s much more…” Zayn glances away from the floor length mirror by their armoire and fixes his gaze on the photograph of Mariah and her family on the wall. “Cleaner than I would have expected it to be.”

Harry gasps and shoves him once in the chest. Ellis whines from the sudden movement.

“I’ll have you know, that I clean every day.”

“Your teeth maybe,” Zayn teases.

Harry rolls his eyes and shows Zayn to the bathroom.

“You can use any products you want. My shampoo is the coconut one, but if you prefer, Mariah uses unscented stuff because she has a sensitive scalp. Um, if you need razors or anything, there’s some disposable ones behind the tampons in the cupboard and if you want some moisturizer I have-”

“I’m just washing baby vom off, Harry.” Zayn’s smirk is fond. “Not expecting the luxury treatment.”

“Everything at Chez Styles is luxurious,” Harry argues. He loiters in the washroom for another beat until Zayn lifts an expectant eyebrow at him. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to it.”

Zayn nods sharply. “Thanks, man.”

Harry leaves as Zayn reaches for the bottom of his shirt.

 

“Where’s Ellis?” Zayn asks.

Harry jumps, spilling tea all over the countertop.

“She puked again while you were in the shower. I cleaned her up with a washcloth and put her to bed. I think it tired her out.”

“Nothing quite knocks you out like a good vom, eh?”

“That’s nasty,” Harry chides. “How was your shower?”

“Warm.” Zayn’s hair is flat on his head. He looks soft and comfortable in Harry’s clothes. Despite how much broader Zayn’s gotten – how his arms have more muscles and his stomach isn’t as flat as it used to be – Harry’s clothes still hang off him like they used to. “The water pressure is great here, cheers.”

“Good. Water pressure is important.”

“I had the shittiest water pressure at uni,” Zayn clucks.

Harry pauses and swallows as discreetly as possible.

They never talk about uni – besides the surface pleasantries while catching up, they’ve never spoken about Harry’s European experience and Zayn’s time at Edinburgh. It feels taboo. So long ago that it doesn’t matter, yet the wound is so fresh that learning about how well Zayn did without him would hurt too badly.

Harry knows it’s not right, but he can’t help it. As much as he says he’s over it, the break up felt more like abandonment.

“You look constipated, mate.”

“I’m trying to remember if we have anything other than soy milk in the fridge.”

Zayn pulls a face similar to the one Ellis made seconds before she puked.

“I’ll drink it with three heaps of sugar, thanks.” Zayn picks up the assortment box. “What kind did you choose?”

“The green chai.”

“Green?”

“It’s better,” Harry shrugs. “Want to take these to the living room and put on a film?”

+

Harry’s parents divorced when he was nine.

Although they got in the occasional row, Harry never thought that his dad would tell them a tearful goodbye only to move three cities away. Harry and Gemma still saw their dad two weekends a month and on special holidays, but the impact of his father’s departure left him in fear of being alone.

Or perhaps that’s not the best way to look at it.

Harry enjoyed spending time with his family.

He liked cooking with his mum and hunting for grasshoppers with his sister. When his mum started working more he followed Gemma around like a lost puppy and would sleep on her floor if he ever had nightmares. During sleepovers he preferred to sleep in the same room as his mates and he always opted for shared hostels when he travelled.

So it’s strange that Mariah’s coming home and Harry isn’t as excited as he would normally be.

He woke up with a terrible feeling in his gut and the tension hasn’t dissipated since then. He cleans the kitchen and does laundry. Twitter provides zero distraction and Facebook notifies him that yet another one of his sixth form mates is engaged. He jerks off after going for a run and hops in the shower before supper.

Mariah walks through the door at half seven with a wide smile and deep tan.

She looks happy; rejuvenated.

“Hi handsome,” she grins, planting a big kiss on Harry’s lips.

Harry kisses back without protest. “How was your trip?”

“Relaxing. I spent more time at the beach than actually working so that was nice.”

“Good,” Harry presses in for another kiss. His stomach feels less somersault-y and more rollercoaster-y. “You deserve it.”

“Don’t I know it,” she laughs. “How were things here?” She dips her finger into a pan of mushrooms and spinach and plucks out a slice. “How was work?”

“Work was good. Busy.” Opening the oven door, Harry extracts the pan of baked chicken. “Ellis came over for a night.”

Mariah’s face melts into a smile. “Did she? How was that?”

“Really fun. We made blueberry pancakes for breakfast and I sent her home with a sugar buzz.”

“Of course.” She pecks Harry on the cheek like she can’t help herself. “I’m going to grab a shower, real quick.”

“But dinner just came out of the oven,” Harry protests.

“You can eat without me. I had a sandwich an hour ago.”

“You – oh. That’s fine, I can put it aside for you to bring to work tomorrow.”

“You’re the best!” Mariah preens.

 

Harry’s halfway through his chicken when Mariah enters the kitchen with a fluffy yellow towel wrapped around her body. She looks murderous with a green shirt in her hand.

“Who’s is this?”

Harry blinks several times before it dawns on him. “Oh. That’s Zayn’s.”

“What is Zayn’s shirt doing shoved behind the toilet?”

“I must have forgotten to wash it.” Harry shoves his piece of chicken in his mouth with a shrug. “I could have sworn I did yesterday.”

Mariah’s still glowering. “Why is it here?”

“He was helping me watch Ellis and she vommed on him so he took a shower. I meant to toss it in the wash basket.”

“Why was Zayn helping you watch Ellis?”

Harry holds in his annoyed sigh.

“We were supposed to hang out and then Gemma showed up with Ells.”

“Does Gemma know he was here?”

“ _Yes_. Why are you asking so many questions?”

Mariah scoffs and tightens her hold on her towel. “If you came home from a weekend away to find another man’s shirt hidden behind a toilet-”

“It fell. It wasn’t hidden,” Harry insists.

“-you would ask questions too. I’m curious if Gemma knew that your ex – who she hates – was watching her kid.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.” Harry rolls his eyes and shoves his chair back so he can cross his legs. “She doesn’t hate Zayn and neither do you so I don’t understand why you’re being so weird.” Then, because the ache in Harry’s stomach has grown tenfold he adds, “And Niall stays over all the time.”

“You never fucked, Niall.”

Harry bites his tongue. Shaking his head, he breathes in through his nose and exhales loudly out of his mouth.

“I don’t know if you just accused me of cheating on you or not,” he says calmly. “But if you really think I would cheat on you, I-” Harry stares at the ceiling and tries to formulate his thoughts. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’m not-”

The kitchen chair drags against the tiles. The sound of her body dropping into it follows. “I didn’t – I just said that, Harry. I know you wouldn’t cheat on me.”

Harry takes in her glossy eyes, her pink cheeks, and frazzled hair. “I wouldn’t.” And when she doesn’t say anything Harry says, “I could never.”

“I know.” Mariah nods once and pushes her chair back. “I’m gonna shower.”

+

The pub is warm and full and loud.

Harry’s been swivelling in the bar stool for the past ten minutes, trying to ignore how happy and loved up the couple to his left look.

He’s already drunk through his first whiskey sour and is nursing a second when a hand claps him on the back. He coughs on the sip he’s taken – feeling it run down the wrong tube and choking to get air into his lungs.

“You alright, mate?” Niall’s eyes are lit with concern.

“You tried to kill me,” Harry wheezes. “You genuinely tried to kill me.”

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it sooner.” Niall sits in the stool next to him and flags over the bartender. “I would have pushed you into traffic or drugged one of your drinks. I could have snuck into your flat and suffocated you and everyone would think Ry did it.”

Harry blinks at Niall.

“Bloody hell, you’ve put a lot of thought into it.”

“I watch a lot of _Real Crime_.” He turns away from Harry’s horrified face to ask for a pint of Guinness. He doesn’t even let the bartender set it down before taking a generous swig. “How are things with Mariah?”

Harry frowns into his drink and sighs. “They’re alright. She’s not… she’s kind of distant?”

“How so?”

“She’s out with her new friend Florence a lot and she comes home after I’ve gone to work. Plus I’m swamped at work doing month end and inventory shit.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Not your fault,” Harry shrugs. He sips his whiskey through a straw and resumes spinning his chair. “It just sucks. She never seems in the mood to talk and we’ve only… _y’know_ , once since she’s been back.”

Niall’s eyes bug out of his head. “You’ve only fucked once in eleven days?” Niall’s voice is far too loud for the bar and Harry rushes to cover Niall’s mouth. Niall simply licks his palm which – yelch – and continues, “I swear Wali and I have done it forty times since Monday.”

“What the fuck, Ni.”

Niall and Harry both turn towards the voice. It’s Zayn, because of course it is. Niall turns bright red and cackles loudly as Zayn stands still as a statue behind them.

“Um,” Niall looks at Harry, then looks back at Zayn. “We were talking about laundry,” Niall blushes deeper. “I’m terrible with laundry. I let the washing basket overflow to the point that I have to do it forty times a week – at least. Sometimes I have to do it forty-five. It’s me socks, I swear. My feet always smell and I-”

“Zayn, please make him stop,” Harry begs.

Zayn glares for another heartbeat before he claps Niall harshly on the shoulder.

“I’ll pretend I never heard that if my first drink is on you.”

“Obviously,” Niall says hastily. “Bartender,” he calls. “What’s the most expensive thing you’ve got?”

 

Buying Zayn’s drink turns into buying Harry’s drink which turns into the shift leader sweeping a broken glass dropped by a girl so drunk she says the unicorns made her do it. That turns into the man with the broom being so star struck over the sight of Niall Horan in the bar that he insists on every drink on his tab being on the house.

Harry’s giggly and loose from the whiskey sours and beer that was practically poured down his throat.

Niall’s cheeks are ruddy and he’s talking about golf again – something that only happens when he’s drunk and comfortable.

Zayn is relaxed into the booth. His arm is rested on top of the booth and although it’s not wrapped around Harry’s shoulder per se, Harry’s warm as if it is.

It feels good to have a proper lad’s night where he can laugh and drink and eat chips until he feels like his stomach might burst. Things are so tense at home that he feels like he needs a week worth of hols in Ibiza just to get the stress off his shoulders. Mariah keeps her distance when they’re together by kissing him on the cheek and showering as soon as she comes in the door after Harry’s cooked her supper. She goes to work early and leaves before Harry comes home from work to do something-or-another. Harry stopped asking question after the fourth eye-roll he received. They’ve been in different syncs and as hard as Harry tries – they can’t seem to find a rhythm.

But Harry doesn’t want to think about that tonight.

He wants to listen to the live music of an angelic, mousy girl, bask in the laughter of his two best mates, and just chill for once.

When Niall’s slurring his words and waxing poetic about Waliyha, Zayn and Harry decide it’s best to dump him into a taxi.

“Want to come to mine for a night cap?” Zayn offers.

Harry thinks about his home – about Mariah and what she may be doing; if she’s waiting for him or fast asleep in anticipation of sleeping in on her day off. Harry doesn’t work until noon and he could easily go home and wake up with his girlfriend, surprise her by waking her up with his mouth attached to her skin.

But then he checks his phone and sees that she’s out with Florence again.

“As long as it’s not a rum and Pepsi,” he teases.

 

Of course, all Zayn has is rum, Pepsi, and a tray full of ice cubes.

Harry digs in the cupboards for a snack while Zayn makes their drinks with more rum than Pepsi.

“You have shit snack food,” Harry tells him, settling on a bag of cheese and onion crisps. He doesn’t wait for Zayn to respond as he walks to the living room.

He dumps himself horizontally into the sofa, ignoring the textbook he stacks his socked feet on. Harry struggles to open the bag – alcohol making him weak and clumsy.

“Lift your feet,” Zayn clucks.

Under Zayn’s shitty light, Harry thinks he looks beautiful. He watches, speechless, as Zayn tugs the textbook out from under Harry’s feet and slots himself into the space.

“Were you studying?” Harry asks.

“I had a test yesterday.”

Harry scrunches up his face, but the image of Zayn studying – bent over his textbook with a highlighter in his hand and a pen in his ear – makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“You didn’t tell me you had a test.”

“Was I supposed to?” Zayn says not unkindly.

“No,” Harry shrugs. “But… I don’t know… School interests me since I never, y’know, went myself.”

A smile ghosts over Zayn’s lips. “It’s not too late.”

Harry sips from his straw and avoids Zayn’s eyes.

“I don’t think I would ever go.”

“No? How come?”

“I don’t think I have the patience for it, really. Three years for something I don’t even have a passion in just to say I have a degree?” Harry hasn’t meant for his tone to become quite so serious, but Zayn nods along before taking a drink from his tumbler. Harry watches his throat bob, the way his jaw clenches as it undoubtedly burns down his throat.

And Jesus, Harry shouldn’t be noticing things like this. He grips his glass harder and foregoes the straw in order to tip his head back and drink. The ice cubes clank against his teeth.

“When you put it like that…” Zayn says with a grin.

“Did you like uni?” Harry asks instead.

He needs something to do with his hands once he sets his empty glass on the floor.

“Besides the first year?” Zayn teases. “It was fine. It was… school.”

“School,” Harry mocks, trying his best to match his tone. His morbid voice doesn’t allow for it though and he ends up sounding more like he’s suffocating.

Zayn pinches Harry’s shin.

It wouldn’t be anything of significance except… except he leaves his hand there.

Harry’s surprised the heat of it doesn’t burn a hole through his jeans.

“Tell me about your first year.”

“I-” Zayn clears his throat. “You don’t want to know.” There’s something strange about his voice that Harry’s too drunk to decipher.

“I do,” Harry insists. He points his toe and pokes Zayn in what he thinks is his belly button. “Tell me Zaynie.”

Zayn roll his eyes, like he’s put out.

“I just-” Harry licks his lips. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He refuses to acknowledge the ache in his chest when he says, “Sometimes I wonder what it was like for you at Edinburgh.”

Harry worries that he’s crossed a line with the silence that stretches between them.

Finally, after what feels like several seconds, he cracks an eye open.

Zayn is leaning over his legs, looking Harry square in the face.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” Zayn says.

“In your presence? Never.”

Zayn smiles that silly, eye-squishing smile again.

“Do you really want to know?”

Harry nods seriously. With nothing to do with his hands, he twists his ring around his middle finger.

There’s a charged tension between them as Zayn’s eyes drip. But as soon as they meet, Zayn lifts Harry’s feet and stands. He stretches his arms high above his head; his back forming a perfect bow.

“Want another drink?”

“I want to hear about Edinburgh.”

“After,” Zayn says softly. “Let me get you a drink first.”

Harry isn’t in the business of turning down free alcohol so while Zayn fixes him a drink he gets his phone out from between his bum and the cushions to check his texts.

He has a message from his mum and Gemma in the group chat and another from Mariah letting him know that she’s staying with Florence for the night.

Before Harry can dwell on another night in another empty bed, he’s got a cold refill shoved in his face.

“Who you texting?”

“Mariah.”

Zayn’s raised eyebrows are a dead giveaway that Harry’s grumbled the name.

“She’s staying at her friend’s again and I don’t fancy being alone.”

“You can sleep here if you want,” Zayn offers.

It’s a good idea in theory, Harry thinks, but there’s a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach that he refuses to recognize as arousal, much less, attraction. He’s been attracted to his friends before – there was a two week period in year nine when he thought he might have been in love with Jonny and the four days he thought he was in love with Alice in year three – but Harry’s never… he’s never had what he has with Zayn.

He feels as if he’s constantly walking on thin ice around him and at any moment it could crack and swallow him whole.

“I’ll take the sofa, of course.”

“No way in hell,” Harry refuses. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“Your back is always fucked, Haz. You’ll have to curl up to sleep on the sofa and you’ll be sore for your shift tomorrow.”

“I-” Harry shuts his mouth. It’s a tantalizing offer. Especially with how drunk he is and how long the walk home can feel when he stumbles over every crack and holds on to the lampposts in case he pukes. “Maybe.” He sniffs once and sits up, tucking his feet under his bum so Zayn can spread his legs comfortably. “Tell me about uni now. I wanna know.”

“The first year was…”

The air in the room seems to suffocate him. Harry can’t breathe suddenly. He needs to know with every fibre of his being if Zayn suffered – if Zayn had sleepless nights running through every conversation he had with Harry – if he missed him so badly he had insomniac episodes running over what-ifs and maybe-I-could’ves.

“What if I said I loved it?” Zayn asks.

Harry swallows thickly, anticipating. “I wanted you to be happy.”

Zayn laughs once. It’s sharp; bitter.

“You wanted me miserable, Haz.”

“I didn’t.” Harry feels desperate. His teeth taste fuzzy and his tongue, thick. “I wanted – I wanted you to be free.”

“I was crying the first time I met, Tommo.” Zayn doesn’t look as serious as he had a second ago. There’s a nostalgic twist to his lips. “He walked into the room and I was face down on my bed listening to _21_.”

“Adele’s _21_?”

“Don’t look so gleeful,” Zayn chides. “He said ‘ _Mate, if you’re going to be crying and listening to Someone Like You for the next nine months, I’m requesting a transfer_.’”

“ _Someone Like You_?”

Zayn shakes his head and lifts his knee into his chest. “You’re such a shit.”

“Rolling in the Deep was my song of choice,” Harry discloses. He catches Zayn’s eye and they share a laugh. It releases some of the anxiety lodged in his chest. “Tell me more about Edinburgh though. What were your classes like? Did you meet anyone?”

Zayn twists his body so it’s facing Harry more and for the next half hour goes on and on about his experience at Edinburgh.

He tells Harry about what it was like being Louis Tomlinson’s best mate and all the shit they would get into – sneaking into parties, stealing toilet paper when they would be running out. He shows Harry a picture of him doing a keg stand – “the most American thing I’ve ever done” – and gets out his laptop to show Harry the gallery he presented at the end of second year. There are fleeting tales about a couple of girls he fancied and a shy guy that asked him out only to aggressively play footsie with Zayn on their study date. There are internships here and there; the odd off-campus gallery and canvases sold. Harry’s surprised to learn that Zayn used to plug in his earphones and skate around the city to spray paint brick walls and abandoned trains. Zayn recounts how much his mum cried on his graduation and how all of his aunties and uncles and cousins made a road trip to watch him trek across the stage in a suffocating gown.

And when Zayn’s done, he asks about Harry’s travels around Europe.

He leaves most of the sleeping around out of the story, but Harry doesn’t miss the way Zayn’s eyes stay transfixed on his face – on his mouth – the entire time. It’s like Zayn can’t get enough. He forces Harry to look up his videos on YouTube. They’re all small performances recorded on shitty camera phones with crap quality. Harry cringes at how high his voice is. He looks a right mess in them too and his guitar skills are even worse than he remembers.

But when Harry finally convinces Zayn that they’ve watched their fair share for the night, Zayn closes the laptop without a kick up.

Harry goes to sleep in Zayn’s pajamas, resting his head on Zayn’s pillow, and wrapped up in Zayn’s sheets, but there still seems to be one thing missing.

+

When Harry was six, the tooth fairy left a five pound note under his pillow.

He begged his mum to walk him to the ice cream store down the street despite it being the middle of November and proudly thrust the cashier lady his money for two ice creams. He cried when the lady told him that it was going to be more than that and when his mum dug in her purse to hand over the remainder, Harry was so inconsolable that Anne had to pop him on her hip and wipe his tears.

He doesn’t remember what flavour either of them were and he doesn’t even remember which tooth went missing – but he does remember holding his mum’s hand on the way home and yelling at every passerby-er that she was his best friend.

Harry has never been shy when it came to how he feels about his mum.

There was no teenage rebellion stage; no curse words yelled down the stairs or angry rant about how he would rather be homeless than under her roof. He gave his mum a kiss and a hug nearly every night and even while he was away he would send her a text with so many x’s it filled the entire screen.

His relationship with his family is more important than any relationship he could ever have, which is why their approval of Mariah means so much to him.

“Should we order a bottle of rosé?” Anne asks. Her eyes sweep over the menu once more before settling on Harry and Mariah.

Mariah shakes her head and sets her glass of water down. “I’m fine for now, thanks.”

“Harry?”

“No thanks.” When Anne purses her lips Harry huffs out a laugh. “You’re more than welcome to drink the bottle yourself.”

“I would if I wasn’t going to a bloody book club meeting after this.”

“Is it an actual book club, or a gossip club?” Harry teases.

Anne’s eyes crinkle at the edges as she laughs. “We just read _The Museum of You_ by Carys Bray. It’s a few years old, but so bloody good.” She picks up a breadstick out of the basket in the center of the table and dunks it into the marinara. “Anyway, how’s work going, have you-” Anne quiets when the server shows up at the side of their table.

“So sorry to interrupt, did you need another moment?”

“Oh!” Anne plunks the breadstick onto her plate with a laugh. “We’re ready. Mariah, would you like to go first?”

Mariah orders a well done rib-eye, much to everyone’s surprise. It’s common for her to get a steak, but they’re normally medium-rare and she doesn’t seem so on edge ordering.

Harry chalks the tension up to Mariah having a stressful day at work; one of the guests was an hour late and barely had a fifteen minute interview. They had to push the premiere of her single later into the show which resulted in a loss of listeners due to the work day being started already. She had texted Harry that she had a meeting before she could meet Harry and Anne for lunch and she met them at the cozy restaurant half an hour late.

Anne orders her salad with a coy smile and when the server walks away she folds her arms in front of the table expectantly.

“What?” Harry asks. He suddenly feels hot under his collar.

Anne only raises her eyebrows, eyeing Mariah.

“Um,” Mariah coughs. She fiddles with the napkin on her lap.

“Is there a reason you wanted to meet for lunch?” Anne’s voice does that strange thing it always does when she’s trying to get Harry to answer a certain way. It’s same voice she used when Harry broke a lamp in their living room and he ran to his room before she could catch him in the act. She knocked on his door and carefully asked him if he knew how the lamp broke. She used the same voice when Harry had a girl hiding in his closet and Anne asked why there was a pair of unfamiliar sparkly flats by the door when there was no one else in his room with him.

So, Harry’s familiar with the tone, but he usually isn’t this baffled by where the conversation is going.

“Well we’ve been so busy with work, we didn’t know when the next time we would see you would be.”

“Gemma’s having her baby in a few weeks,” Anne says. She smiles at Mariah again and when Mariah hesitantly glances at Harry, he only grows more confused.

“What does that-”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Anne huffs. “You’re pregnant!”

Harry chokes on his water. Mariah’s eyes grow as large as her soup spoon.

“I’m not-” Mariah sputters. “Anne, I’m not pregnant.”

“You can tell me love, I know the signs. You’re not drinking and your steak is well-done. You’ve got a lovely glow and-”

“Mum she had her period last week,” Harry cringes.

Anne stops talking immediately. Her cheeks turn scarlet as she covers her mouth in alarm.

“Oh my – oh. I didn’t,” Anne reaches across the table and covers Mariah’s hand with her own. “Poppet, I’m so sorry. I just figured with how your relationship is going-”

Harry laughs a bit hysterically. “Mum there is no way we would have a child right now. _Jesus_. We are – we are not ready for that. At all.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought, you’ve been together for so long it made sense in my head.”

“It’s alright, Anne,” Mariah says quickly. “Honestly, we-”

“Are not having a child,” Harry finishes. “Christ.” Harry slumps in his seat. His heart is racing from the mere suggestion of having a child. “Imagine us as parents,” Harry says to Mariah. “Jesus.”

It only goes downhill from there.

 

Mariah doesn’t talk to him the entire walk home.

She moves her hand away when he tries to hold it and when he unlocks the door and holds it open for her, she doesn’t even mutter a thank you.

Her shoes track in faint traces of dirt as she walks directly to their bedroom and slams the door.

Harry slumps into the sofa and pulls out his phone. He immediately searches for Zayn’s conversation thread in his messages app and asks what he’s up to for the night.

He scrolls Instagram and likes a picture of a skateboarding poodle and pregnancy progress picture that Gemma has posted. He checks to see if Zayn’s read the message, but when it only says _delivered_ , he locks his phone and throws his forearm over his forehead.

The simple solution would be to walk up the stairs and apologize – or to have apologized as soon as she came back from the bathroom and cut into her steak with the aggression of an angered bull.

His phone vibrates against his stomach right as a loud thump comes from the upstairs landing.

He’s conflicted about which to check on first.

In the end, he can’t ignore when a second thump sounds. Then a third then a fourth in quick succession.

Harry’s standing by the time Mariah appears with a large suitcase and a scowl on her face.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks, baffled.

“I’m staying with a friend.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

Mariah clicks the luggage handle and sends it back into the suitcase. “I don’t want to be in your presence right now. I don’t even – I can’t even look at you.”

“I’m sorry if-”

“ _If_!?”Mariah’s laugh is short and angry. “Do you know what it was like to hear you tell your mother you don’t want to have kids with me?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Harry.” Mariah sounds hysterical. “You made the idea of having children sound ridiculous. You sounded appalled. I’ve never-” Her face clouds over and her chest heaves slowly. “I’ve never felt so embarrassed and disrespected in my life.”

“That wasn’t my intention.” Harry takes a few bold steps towards her. She doesn’t move away, but everything in her stature is telling him to keep his distance. “I just – my mother thought you were pregnant and I needed her to know that you weren’t. That we haven’t discussed it.”

“You’re joking, right?”

When Harry shakes his head, swallowing over the lump in his throat, Mariah looks ready to kill him again.

“I brought it up to you a few months ago and you pretty much shut down that idea.”

“You were drunk,” Harry reasons.

“Which made me brave enough to talk to you about it!” Mariah throws up her hands. “It’s almost been four years, Harry. Do you know the amount of times I’ve subtly tried to hint that I want to get married?”

“You could always propose.” Harry regrets the words as soon as he says them.

Mariah clenches her jaw and folds her arms over her chest.

“I would if I thought you would say yes!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Harry’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

“You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t want to get married.”

“We’re young,” Harry tells her. “You’ve said you’re not ready, too.”

“Do you know how hard it is to talk about the future with you?”

“We talk,” Harry counters.

“Harry, we’ve been talking about going to Egypt for months now and we’ve never booked a ticket.”

At Harry’s silence, Mariah shakes her head and reaches for her luggage.

Harry fights the urge to help her with her it. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but it would also reinforce the notion that he wants her out.

“Don’t leave, Ry.”

“I need space, Harry. I need – I need to be by myself.”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Harry offers.

“I meant for a while. Like… a week.”

“A week? Mariah, be rational.”

Mariah glares at him and grips the luggage handle. “I am. I’m staying with Florence – she lives closer to the studio anyway.”

“Jesus, Mariah. How long have you been planning this then?”

“Excuse me? I’m not planning anything.”

Harry blocks her path. Satisfaction blossoms its ugly head when she snarls at him.

“Get out of my way.”

“No. Stay here and talk this out with me.”

“Harry, no.” She steps left and Harry mirrors her. “I’m serious. This isn’t going to result in angry makeup sex. I’m livid right now.”

“Well so am I.”

“So help me God,” she spits. “Get out of my fucking way.”

And Harry-

Well Harry has never heard her speak with such hatred. He’s never seen her look so mad. Everything in him is telling him to be sympathetic; understanding.

Instead, he turns around and opens the front door for her.

When she doesn’t move, Harry raises his eyebrows and says, “Well?”

+

The last time Harry went through a break up, he was seventeen and the love of his life was on his way to the University of Edinburgh.

So it’s funny, Harry thinks in a bitter and ironic way, that it happens to be that very same person that he turns to for comfort and reassurance after a massive fight with his girlfriend.

Unfortunately, Zayn is on a date with his boyfriend and Niall is currently the person with his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

He’s not the worst person to rant to – Niall’s quiet and attentive. He hums in the right spots and always nods along – but there’s an unspoken acknowledgement that Niall isn’t wholy objective. If it was up to Harry he would be venting to someone that would fuel his anger and agree with every single thing he says. Of course, Gemma and Anne aren’t the best candidates and Jonny is too far away to soothe him immediately.

Niall squeezes Harry’s shoulders tightly and kisses his head when Harry’s done.

“I can’t really say shit either way,” Niall tells him. “I love both you and Mariah, mate.”

“I know,” Harry sighs. His eyes are sore and his chest still aches. “Thanks for coming over anyway. I really appreciate the company.”

“Of course. Just because I can’t talk shit with you about her doesn’t mean I won’t be here for you.”

Harry tangles his fingers with Niall’s and sighs again.

“Want to walk to that ice cream shop and get a tub?”

So maybe Niall isn’t the worse person to talk to after all.

+

There’s been nothing but radio silence from Mariah for five days.

Harry knows she’s alive because Niall has confirmed that she goes to work every day – _looking like shit, mind you_ – and she still posts on her Snapchat story. Other than that, Harry has no idea how or what she’s doing.

He’s texted her a fair few times; to tell her that he’s sorry and he never meant it and that he loves her. Every message is met with a _delivered_ notification and nothing more.

Harry’s heart hurts too much if he thinks about it so he entertains himself with work, footie, and a pub night with the boys.

Niall is adamant on staying an uninvolved third party, but it doesn’t stop him from rubbing Harry’s knee and asking if he wants to stay the night at his despite the fact that he has to get up for work at 5 in the morning. Harry declines with a sad smile of his own.

Niall and Louis leave before 11 and Harry finds himself squished against Zayn and surrounded by a bachelorette party. All the women are gorgeous and generous – the tab they’re running compliments of the bride-to-be’s rich father-in-law. They do tequila shots and take about the latest season of _Britain’s Next Top Model_ , chatting about how Abbey Clancy is a much better host than Paul Sculfor will ever be.

And at the end of the night they have empty invitations to the wedding and so much liquor in their stomach it sloshes on every stumble.

“They were fun,” Harry tells Zayn, whispering it into his neck.

Zayn giggles helplessly, hoisting Harry into an upright position with a hand under his armpit.

“You’ve got to walk straight, babe,” Zayn instructs.

“Straight,” Harry hiccups. “We’re not straight!” Harry yells to the starlight sky.

“Mate you are wasted.” Zayn laughs so hard he has to cover his mouth. “I think I might puke.”

“If your hair was any longer I would hold it for you,” Harry says helpfully.

Zayn does end up puking in a bush not even three feet later. Harry looks away and rubs Zayn’s back carefully. His spine is arched and spiky; Harry refrains from digging into each knob with his knuckles.

Zayn stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I haven’t puked like that since I was a fresher.”

“Aw, it’s like I’m finally at uni with you,” Harry coos. “Should I walk you back to your dorm as well?”

Zayn shoves Harry, but quickly grabs onto his arm when he nearly careens into a parked car.

“Oops,” Harry giggles.

“Giraffe legs,” Zayn teases.

“Hey Zayn-”

“Not this joke again.”

Harry juts his bottom lip out as far as it will go. His lips are quite dry and it aches a bit. “It’s a good joke.”

“I’ve been hearing it for years, Harry.”

“S’not true,” Harry frowns. “We’ve only known each other for two.”

“We’ve known each other for eight,” Zayn corrects. “We’ve only been mates for two.”

“Aw Zaynie you think we’re mates?”

“Not if you keep calling me Zaynie.”

Harry trips over a crack in the pavement.

They stop when they reach the junction between their roads.

“Wanna come to mine?” Harry asks. He has a fire in his stomach he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Wanna sleep in my own bed,” Zayn tells him.

“Want some company?” Harry offers.

Zayn huffs and draws Harry into a tight hug.

“Text me when you get home.”

Harry’s stomach crackles when Zayn squeezes around his middle. He holds on a little longer than normal, soothed by the feel of a body against his own. It’s warm and comforting and centers him a little.

Zayn holds onto the back of Harry’s neck before pulling away.

“You too.”

+

Harry never believed in earth-shattering, bone-rattling, all-encompassing passion.

He enjoys romance films and has read a romance novel or two, but he’s over the naivety involved with imaging that everyone has a soulmate who will make them feel so strongly that they’ll go to the ends of the earth for them.

Part of it is thanks to a psychology major he spent a weekend fucking in Madrid whose idea of pillow talk was a rant about Robert Sternberg’s triangular theory of love. At one point, Harry faked being asleep while the boy droned on and on about how limerence and sexual attraction fades into companionship which ultimately leads to the dissolution of said relationship. It wasn’t exactly arousing.

Since that encounter, there has always been a sour taste in Harry’s mouth when he thinks about longevity and passion. Of course, there are tiny glimmers of hope.

There are times when he looks at Mariah and feels so many emotions he doesn’t know how to express himself. There are times when he can’t seem to keep his hands off her and he needs her now, now, now. There have been times when he’s felt like he might die if he doesn’t have her around him. But-

It’s always overridden with the knowledge that it will fade. That eventually it will end and they’ll be two lonely people just trying their best to keep it together for the sake of having someone.

And it’s when he thinks about that – when it’s late and he’s lonely and he’s got the entire bed to himself – that he thinks why bother with love when he just ends up alone.

+

Mariah walks through the door eight days after her abrupt departure with a slick ponytail and high-waisted black trousers.

She looks chic and business-like, no trace of lack of sleep on her face.

Harry drops the apple he’s been holding.

“Hey,” he greets, unsure what to do with the sight of her in the kitchen.

Her attempt of a smile is more of a grimace. “Hi.”

Harry doesn’t pick his apple up, but he walks around the counter to stand in front of her. He’s unsure what to do with himself. Her arms are folded over her chest. There’s no purse or suitcase.

“How was work?” He’s surprised at the calmness of his voice; the normalcy of their conversation.

“Fine,” she says shortly. “I have to tell you something. I’m not moving back in.”

“You-”

Mariah raises her hand up. There’s a tiny pink crystal ring sitting on her pinky that has never been there before. Her nails are a fresh red.

She takes a breath and lowers her eyes. There are tears welling in them, her cheeks bright red.

“I was with someone.”

“With… with Florence?” Harry says carefully.

Mariah shakes her head faster, tears falling down her cheeks. “No,” she manages between sobs.

Realization dawns on Harry; numbness spreading.

“We can work on it,” Harry tells her. “Ry-”

“It’s been going on for a while,” Mariah cuts him off.

“You’ve only been gone for a week,” Harry rationalizes. “That’s not-”

“No.” She clutches her chest as though he’s the one who stabbed her in the heart. “It’s been months. I – I never meant-” she shakes her head. “We didn’t think – it just happened.”

It’s so quiet in the kitchen that they can hear the sounds of their neighbour watering their plants.

“Just happened?” Harry bursts. “What does that even mean?”

“He just – we just – I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Harry laughs bitterly. “You’ve been cheating on me for God knows how long!”

“Harry-”

Harry’s never been shot, but he reckons that this is what it’s like: delivered sudden and swift only to leave a gaping wound.

“What the fuck,” Harry says a bit hysterically.

“Can we talk about this?” Mariah begs.

“Talk about this?” Harry repeats. He meets Mariah’s wide and pleading eyes and he wants to throw the toaster out the window. “What the fuck is there to talk about?”

“Can you not swear?” She asks, annoyed.

“Can you not fuck some guy behind my back?”

Mariah gapes at him, stricken.

“Harry-”

“Is Florence even real?”

“What?”

“Florence,” Harry annunciates slowly. “Is she actually your mate or is that a cover for your fuckbuddy.”

“Of course she’s real! I tried to get you to meet her a million times.”

“I was so blind. God, I was so fucking blind.” Harry pulls at his hair and turns away from her. “All those business trips, the late nights. You smelt like cologne and I chalked it up to working with Niall.”

“It wasn’t all-”

“I don’t want to know!”

Harry picks up his apple and chucks it into the bin more aggressively than needed.

Mariah leans on the countertop and buries her face in her hands. Her back shakes with her sobs, but Harry has no inclination to comfort her.

He wants her to suffer, to ache, and to be racked with guilt.

The numbness in his body turns into guilt of his own when he realizes that he’s more upset he didn’t realize it than he is at the dissolution of their relationship.

He swallows thickly, although it does nothing to soothe is dry throat.

“So are you moving out or am I?”

Mariah looks up, mascara pooling under her eyes.

“I mean, you have someone to run home to and I don’t. So.” Harry says because he can.

Mariah’s face only crumbles more.

“I suppose you should probably leave now. I’ll text you when you can come over and pick up all your shit – if it’s not dumped in the garden, first.”

“Don’t,” Mariah says quietly. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Harry challenges.

Mariah stands up straight and delivers her line like she’s a revolutionary protagonist of some pretentious teen novel. “Pretend as if you care.”

“Of course I care. We’ve almost been together for four years and you’ve been cheating on me – _fucking some other guy behind my back_ – for months.” He steps towards Mariah and relishes in the power it gives him when she steps back. “Did you ever bring him here? When I was at work or with the boys? Did you fuck in our bed? In this room?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

Harry snorts, shaking his head.

“You had the audacity to accuse me of cheating with Zayn when you were doing just that.”

“I-”

“You pretended to be so hurt about the baby talk the other day,” Harry’s livid. “About marriage.”

“I was hurt, Harry.” Mariah’s eyes are huge, pleading. Harry doesn’t feel one ounce of sympathy. “I-”

“Bullshit. It was just an excuse to leave me.”

“Harry, no-”

“Get out,” Harry demands, calmly.

“Harry-”

“Get the fuck out, Mariah.”

Mariah stares at him with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He wonders how many times he kissed those lips after another man had.

He wonders how many times she turned away from him because another man had fulfilled her.

He wonders how many times she had to lie, avoid, and sneak away from Harry.

And after she’s shut the door quietly behind herself, he wonders why he doesn’t feel very sad at all.

+

Three hours later, Harry’s called in sick to work, taken a shower, eaten lunch, and gotten a message from Mariah asking him not to tell Niall.

Naturally, he does just that.

When Harry shows up at his house, Niall cries more than Harry does.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry murmurs, burying his face in Niall’s clammy neck.

Niall laughs wetly and clutches Harry tighter. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be saying that to you.”

Harry only laughs back, breathing in the familiar smell.

“I promise you I didn’t know about it,” Niall says once they’ve got beer in their hands and golf on the television.

“I never thought you did,” Harry reassures him. He sloshes his beer around the sides of the bottle. “I feel like I should have seen it coming. There were so many signs, y’know? We were both pulling away from each other and… I don’t even feel sad. Is that bad?”

“Probably,” Niall shrugs.

“It’s like after my mum’s second divorce,” Harry admits. “I was sort of numb to it? I was more annoyed that we were going to have to pack all of our things and move houses than I was that I might never see him again.”

“That’s shit, Harry. This whole thing sucks.”

Harry hangs his head over the back of the armrest. The sofa is plush underneath him, similar to the sofa he has at home. It’s brown and worn and heavenly to sink into after a long day at work. Harry really hopes he gets to keep it.

“God, I have to go and divide everything,” Harry groans. “I really don’t fucking feel like doing this.”

“Wait a bit,” Niall suggests. “We’ll get Zayn and Jake to help you move everything.”

“Fuck,” Harry curses. “Fuck, Niall I hate this.”

He tips his head back and downs the rest of his beer. When he straightens up, his eyes are wet, his cheeks are splotchy, and Niall’s already gathering him into a hug.

+

Harry finds himself taking the bus to Zayn’s place instead of his own.

He knocks on the door swiftly, bouncing on his toes as he waits.

Zayn answers the door in his glasses, a loose white Henley, and his phone clutched in his hand. It might be the drinks swirling in his stomach, but Harry has never wanted to kiss someone so much.

“I just texted you,” Zayn says, clearly shocked.

“Surprise.” Harry spreads his fingers and shakes his hands.

“You’re an idiot,” Zayn laughs. Still, he steps aside to let Harry in. “How are you?”

“Good.” Harry tugs off his right boot. “Fine.” He tugs off his left.

“Harry,” Zayn says cautiously. “You broke up with your girlfriend a-”

Harry holds up his hand and gives Zayn a tight smile. “Don’t really want to talk about that, Zayn.”

Zayn steps back and shrugs. “Well, what do you want to do then?”

“Whatever you were doing before I got here,” Harry says.

Five steps later he’s lounging on the beanbag chair with his ankles crossed. There’s a bottle of rum and can of Pepsi on the table.

“Classic,” he remarks.

Zayn sighs and drops lengthwise on the sofa. Harry can only see his dangling hand.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Can someone not get drunk on a Tuesday for fun?”

“They can, but that’s kind of pathetic, mate.” Harry pokes Zayn’s hand with a socked foot. “What’s Jake doing tonight?”

“Dunno,” Zayn mumbles. “We kinda… We’re on a break right now.”

Harry pushes onto his elbows to get a better view of Zayn’s face. He still can’t see anything, but he would like to think he doesn’t look too upset.

Harry settles onto his back and crosses his hands behind his head. He never noticed that Zayn’s roof is a dull cream colour instead of milky white. The spackle pattern is interesting to look at – nothing like the smooth ceilings of his lonely, sad home.

“I mean, it wasn’t three years or anything.”

Harry tilts his head at Zayn and meets his eyes. He looks expectant, a bit worried.

“Hmm?” Harry hums.

“I was just saying that your relationship was long and-”

Harry waves his hand around lazily. “I don’t want to talk about my relationship, Zaynie.” He pushes himself out of the beanbag unsteadily. “I want to drink.”

Zayn laughs and wipes a hand across his beard. It’s getting a bit long, but it doesn’t look prickly.

Harry remembers Zayn’s whiskery hairs when they were teenagers; the way it felt against his lips, his thighs. That was just a sporadic dusting, though. It’s nothing like the facial hair Zayn’s sporting now.

Harry’s lips ache to feel it.

“You’ve already drank, Harry.”

“With Niall.” Harry scrunches up his face. “I want to drink my favourite drink with my favourite person,” he declares.

“That can’t be me,” Zayn laughs. “You hate rum and Pepsi.”

“I like rum and Pepsi with _you_ ,” Harry corrects. He even does a little shoulder shimmy that has Zayn cracking a smile.

He gets up and grabs the bottles, plopping down next to Zayn once he’s rearranged himself.

“Want to make a playlist?” Zayn offers, angling his computer towards Harry.

Harry takes a small sip of rum before taking the computer from Zayn.

He finds his Spotify easily and selects a playlist at random. His eyes are too blurry and thumbs too heavy to actually make an intelligent decision.

“Really?” Zayn smirks as the opening chords of _Pony_ play. “Oh and it’s the Rihanna version.”

“Love a bit of Riri.”

Harry scoots closer to Zayn until their thighs are pressed together. He takes the bottle of Pepsi from him and takes a sickeningly sweet sip.

“That tastes like piss,” he complains.

Zayn laughs so hard rum dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t wanna know how you know what piss tastes like.”

Harry spreads his arm across Zayn’s shoulders and whispers, “Well, Zayn-” but then he cracks up laughing when Zayn shoves the rum at him. “You almost chipped a tooth!” Harry squeals, but he takes the drink thankfully.

He’s aware of their proximity; of how he’s got his arm loosely around Zayn with their legs and hips and sides pressed together. Zayn is warm against him though, and he feels much different than Mariah. He’s all bones and sinewy muscle and the lack of breast pushing into his rib is welcomed.

He knows he’s flirting, but he can’t help it. It’s easy and fun and there’s never been a situation that hasn’t been aided by a little flirting, Harry’s sure.

And it’s Zayn, Harry reminds himself.

It’s unattainable Zayn who still reads comic books and spray paints anything he can. He still wears his retainer every night and has affection for rum and Pepsi. He has the same crinkly smile and pointy canines. They get on like they had when they were younger, except now Zayn’s even more handsome than before.

He wears clothes like a bloody runway model and his stature is more confident and relaxed than it had been when they were in school. He stands tall and proud instead of caving in on himself and he radiates a quiet self-assurance that is infectious. Harry finds himself more enthralled with every word Zayn says.

They talk about mundane things like the change of weather and the impending exams Zayn will have to take before the winter term starts. Harry’s sips grow smaller as his state of intoxication grows larger.

He can’t keep his eyes off Zayn’s lips.

“You’re not even listening,” Zayn teases for the second time.

“I am,” Harry insists. “You want to get a cat.”

“I don’t want any cat,” Zayn sighs. “I want a three legged cat or like a blind cat, because they’re underappreciated and overlooked.”

“That sounds like so much more work,” Harry says.

Zayn tucks his feet under his legs and leans in closer. “It will be, but it will be so worth it. Like, do you know how many older pets are abandoned because they’re not small and cute anymore? They get old then they have all these medical expenses and people don’t want to deal with that so they abandon them or leave them at shelters and that’s just wrong. If you adopt a pet, you adopt it for life. It’s not like you can just-”

Harry cuts Zayn off with a swift kiss on the lips.

He looks just as shocked as Zayn does when he pulls away.

Harry’s eyes widen in fear, panic spreading through every part of his body and – “I am so sor-” the words die in his throat when Zayn’s licks his lips and leans in closer.

Harry’s arm wraps around Zayn to haul him closer. Their lips meet in a long, sucking kiss, eager tongues and soft noises exchanged between them.

Adrenaline spikes through Harry’s veins, excitement itching at his skin. He sucks at Zayn’s lips some more, feeling the rush of air on his upper lip as Zayn exhales.

“You’re sweet as Pepsi,” Harry giggles.

Zayn noses under his jaw and leaves a kiss there. “You hate Pepsi,” Zayn reminds him. His fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders; his lips kiss back to Harry’s mouth.

“Like you though,” Harry mumbles. He bites at Zayn’s full, bottom lip before licking over it.

“You’re so cheesy.”

“You love cheese,” Harry teases. He bats his eyelashes at him and leans in again.

This time they meet with a searing intensity. Harry holds his breath in anticipation as Zayn’s lips work against his. He tilts his head to follow the motion of their lips, desperate to hold onto this moment.

Zayn’s hands twist in the fabric of Harry’s shirt, dragging him to slot his body between Zayn’s thighs. He squeezes Harry’s hips with his inner thighs, grinding experimentally.

Harry’s dick jumps.

“Excited?” Zayn teases. He giggles into the crook of Harry’s neck, peppering it with kisses when Harry huffs. “It’s okay,” he says, grinding his hips more firmly against Harry’s. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks. Lightning shocks through his veins when he presses down; their dicks lining up between the layers of jean.

Zayn moans when their lips meet. It’s loud and messy – too much tongue and excitement to properly be anything other than a prelude.

“Take off your shirt,” Zayn whispers.

Harry sits on his haunches and strips out of his shirt. He pushes his hands under Zayn’s shirt until he gets the hint and shucks it off.

Zayn’s skin is warm to the touch, smooth despite the smattering of hair around his navel and chest. His tattoos are dark; beautiful. Harry traces the wings on Zayn’s chest with his tongue.

Zayn sighs happily, resting his hand in Harry’s hair. He gently guides him until Harry’s licking into his mouth.

“I’m so hard,” Harry discloses. Zayn’s smile matches his own.

They stand for a second to take off their trousers. Harry admires the line of Zayn’s spine as he bends over and picks the ankle of his jeans off his feet. When Zayn straightens, Harry’s eyes immediately drop to the outline of his dick. He’s in black boxers with red dots on them. The band is yellow and for some reason it reminds Harry of Mickey Mouse.

A sharp, swift laugh is punched from his chest.

“A man takes off his trousers and you laugh at him?” Zayn questions. Harry shakes his head helplessly, trying not to laugh again.

Zayn’s fingers encircle Harry’s wrists. It takes a couple of tugs and a harsh suck behind Harry’s ear, but eventually Harry relents and wraps his arms around Zayn’s waist.

“You’re so fit.” Harry’s breathing is choppy when he kisses the tip of Zayn’s nose. “Want you to fuck me, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s finger circles one of Harry’s nipples. “Should I get lube and a condom?”

Harry nods shivering when Zayn licks his lips.

“Be right back,” Zayn tells him.

Harry peels himself out of his boxers before flopping onto the sofa. He wraps a loose fist around his dick and gives it a few tugs. The foreskin is pulled back to reveal his slit, wet with a bit of precome that makes the glide that much easier. The tip of his dick is the same colour of his nipples and he gives them attention while he waits for Zayn to return.

It feels like Harry sits there for ages; with his head thrown back and soft groans emitting from his lips.

“Started without me?” Zayn asks.

Harry shakes his head and spreads his legs for Zayn to stand between. “Do you wanna finger me or should I?”

“Jesus.” Zayn crosses the room in a few strides and kisses him. “How do you want to do it?”

“You should finger me while I lay here.”

“Lazy arse,” Zayn whispers against his lips.

Harry shakes his head again and dislodges Zayn’s kiss. “M’saving my energy,” he says. “I kind of want to ride you on the beanbag.”

Zayn’s fingers curl around the bottle of lube and condom package. “Fuck yes.”

“Good.” Harry pats Zayn’s chest twice before lying on his back and bending his legs into his chest. He tucks his hands into the backs of his knees and spreads them.

“You’re gonna kill me, Haz.”

Harry smiles at Zayn and watches with baited breath as he squirts lube on two of his fingers. Harry’s head tips back as Zayn presses them against his arse, teasing a circle around his hole. Tipping his head back, Harry exhales slowly; two smooth fingers sink inside.

“Fuck,” he rasps, loving how Zayn’s pushing him to take more.

Zayn kisses Harry’s knee, steading himself with a hand on the sofa next to his hip. He scissors his fingers, slipping them in and out at a painfully slow rhythm. Harry shudders, feeling electric shocks run up his stomach muscles. Goosebumps prickle on his chest despite the warmth of the room.

“God, Harry,” Zayn whispers. He leans down and closes his lips around one of Harry’s hardened nipples. He tugs on it with his teeth, emitting a groan from between Harry’s lush lips. “Want another?”

Harry moans, seeking Zayn’s lips for a kiss before he can continue.

Zayn coats his fingers with more lube and this time when he presses in, there’s three fingers stretching him. Zayn pumps his fingers, kissing down Harry’s chest and giving each nipple attention. He nips playfully at the extra ones, mumbling something about Harry being a freak, but then he’s nipping at Harry’s belly button, sucking the meat of Harry’s stomach, and licking a stripe up the underside of his dick.

Harry cries out weakly, spreading his legs wider. He hooks his left foot around the back of the sofa so he can curl his hand behind Zayn’s neck and feel his head bob as he sucks his dick. It’s wet and warm, a stark contrast to the cold lube being fucked into Harry’s arse. His facial hair brushes against Harry’s skin, rough and harsh.

Zayn pops off to nose at the sparse hair on Harry’s inner thighs. He sucks a mark at the think skin there, inhaling audibly. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers out only to thrust them back inside and cause Harry’s hips to jump.

His dick slaps against Zayn’s cheek, a laugh shocked out of his chest.

“Oh my God,” he laughs.

“You just cock slapped me.” Zayn’s fix is a mixture of horror and disbelief. He digs his fingers into Harry’s ribs.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Harry gasps. He bats Zayn’s hands away, but he isn’t fast enough. Zayn tickles his sides and under his knees, causing Harry to flail and lash out. His body twists right and left, uncontrollable laughter makes his eyes wet in the corners. “Zayn, stop!” He squeals.

He nearly falls off the sofa, but Zayn catches him in time. Harry drops his foot to the floor and runs his thumb over Zayn’s jaw. “Always saving me,” he smiles.

Zayn smiles just as softly, leaning down to capture Harry’s lips in a deep kiss.

Harry shifts against him, moaning loudly when Zayn slides three fingers back into his arse. Harry’s squirms only get faster the lower on his body Zayn kisses.

Zayn dips his face lower than before and sucks one of Harry’s balls into his mouth, his fingers maintaining their speed. It’s more attention than they’ve had in ages, Harry clenching his toes and willing his body to calm down. Harry wraps his hand around his dick, playing with the foreskin while Zayn tongues at where his fingers and arse meet.

“M’not gonna last,” Harry moans sadly. Zayn grunts, sucking harder. “Zayn – fuck!”

Zayn lifts his lips from Harry’s skin, moving to the inside of his knee, instead. He kisses it gently before sliding out his fingers and wiping them on the sofa.

Harry can’t even find it in him to be grossed out. His mind plays a mantra of more and now and please.

Zayn fumbled for the condom wedged under his knee, opening the package with sticky fingers before sliding it on. Harry could watch Zayn’s hand slide down his dick for hours. The contrast of the pink head with his dark skin, the way the veins seemed to push against the underside, long and thick. Harry’s mouth practically drools in anticipation.

“Please,” Harry whimpers, clutching Zayn’s shoulders. “Fuck me, come on.”

“Gimme a second,” Zayn asks, slow as honey.

Their lips brush together when Zayn lines up; low, guttural sounds exhale against each other’s open mouths. Harry squeezes Zayn’s shoulders as he finally, finally, presses inside. Zayn drops his forehead to rest on Harry’s cheek, hair bristling against his temple. Harry sobs as Zayn pulls out and fucks back inside, hips snapping forward and back.

Harry clenches around Zayn, tightening his fingers into his shoulders until Zayn’s the one whimpering, sweating, swearing.

“You’re so tight,” Zayn mumbles against his neck. “Don’t care if that sounds porn-y.”

“Sounds hot,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to Zayn’s head. “Sexy.”

Whatever Zayn was about to say is forgotten when Harry moans and bucks his hips upwards. He throws an arm above his head to hold onto the armrest while the other goes to Zayn’s chest, right over his heart. The thud of his heart grounds him, gives him something to cling to as the sound of Zayn’s hips against Harry’s arse fill the room.

“Oh my God,” Harry gasps. Another thrust pulls a high, surprised moan from him, followed by Zayn groaning his name into his throat. “Fuck me. Come on, Zayn. Fuck me-” he chocks on his next breath, wheezing in a ragged breath.

Sweat runs down his temples, settles on his stomach, and slicks the space where his hands meet Zayn’s skin. He can feel the redness on his face, the unattractive blush that is no doubt flaming his cheeks and chest. It doesn’t stop him from wanting more though, begging Zayn to fuck him harder, faster.

“Thought you were gonna ride me on the beanbag,” Zayn reminds him with a nip to Harry’s neck, sharp teeth sinking into smooth skin before his tongue lathes over the spot. Harry shudders and traps Zayn to his body with his inner thighs.

Zayn’s hips grind slower in the small space. Harry’s dick is squished between their stomachs, but neither of them makes a move to give it any attention. Harry’s lips seek out Zayn’s, whining high in his throat when Zayn holds his lips an inch away.

“Kiss me,” Harry begs. “Then you can move to the beanbag and I’ll ride you.”

“I was kidding,” Zayn dismisses, but then Harry’s hauling him in by the back of the neck and yanking him into a kiss.

Their tongues slid together, messy and wet and perfect. Harry thinks of hairless cats and deshelled turtles in an attempt to stave off his orgasm.

When he feels his orgasm seconds away, he pushes Zayn back and motions towards the beanbag.

“I don’t think I can move,” Zayn says. He kisses Harry again, a quick peck.

He pulls out and Harry whines; clenching his arse until his head slips out with a wet squelch.

Zayn removes the used condom and tosses it onto the hardwood. He grabs a new condom from the table and leans onto the beanbag, sliding it over his length and sighing when it’s on.

Harry licks his lips as Zayn holds his dick for him. Harry braces himself on Zayn’s shoulders and sinks down, moaning the entire time.

“You’re so loud, babes,” Zayn remarks. “Love it.”

“You feel so good, holy shit,” Harry grinds his hips in a small circle. “I’m gonna come.”

Zayn wraps his fingers around the base of Harry’s dick and squeezes. “Don’t you dare.”

Harry hisses and rocks back and forth. Precome drips over his foreskin, milky and thick as it dribbles down Zayn’s knuckles. Zayn lifts it to his mouth and licks it off, keeping his eyes trained on Harry’s.

“Holy fuck,” Harry gasps. “Zayn. Zayn – I’m not – I can’t.”

Zayn has the audacity to smirk at him. He holds onto Harry’s hips and thrusts upwards, throwing off Harry’s rhythm in the best way possible.

Harry wobbles and digs his nails into Zayn’s skin, swearing loudly again. He licks his lips and slots their lips together, sucking on Zayn’s bottom lip until Zayn’s squirming underneath him. Harry scratches his fingers down Zayn’s chest to feel his heartbeat again. It’s erratic and thumping beneath his fingertips. He wants to commit it to memory.

“Oh, fuck,” Zayn gasps, his eyes widening comically. “I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, satisfied.

Zayn nods and runs his fingers through the long hair on top of Harry’s head and scratches his blunt nails into the shorter hairs down the back. His other hand snakes between their bodies to grasp Harry’s dick. He strokes Harry short and tight, thumb working over the head and playing with the foreskin.

Harry mumbles nonsense and curls his toes to find something grounding.

“C’mon, Harry,” Zayn whispers. He jerks Harry faster, in time with Harry’s impatient moves. “Fuck. C’mon, wanna see you come. Wanna-”

It’s Zayn who comes first, Harry notes with a satisfied shiver. He tugs on Zayn’s earlobe with his teeth, kisses the scrunched skin between his eyebrows. Zayn’s saying something Harry can’t understand under his breath. His hips hump to meet Harry’s arse in an uncontrollable spasm.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry groans. “Fuck, you’re so hot. You’re so fucking gorgeous Zayn. Open your eyes, c’mon.”

Zayn blinks his eyes open looking fucked out and hazy. Harry kisses him soundly, slipping his tongue inside without even waiting for Zayn to reciprocate the kiss. Zayn’s hands fist Harry’s arse, squeezing the meat and pulling his cheeks apart. He slips in a millimeter deeper and if the sound Harry makes is any indication, he’s hit his prostate dead on.

Zayn slips the tip of his finger in alongside his cock, stretching Harry that much more. Harry absolutely shrieks, slumping onto Zayn’s body and coming hotly between them.

Harry’s eyes flutter open slowly.

His entire body feels damp and warm.

“Hey,” Zayn says, smiling. Harry opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His round, owlish eyes look into Zayn’s, his nose scrunching up when Zayn pecks it. “Did I fuck you senseless?”

Harry finally laughs, breaking into a wider grin than before. “I think so.”

“Good.” Zayn stretches his legs despite the fact that his dick is still firmly nestled between Harry’s cheeks. It makes Harry’s arse ache a bit. “I’m going soft any second here, love.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, blushing furiously. He kisses Zayn’s jaw before getting off of him carefully. “I smell rank.”

Zayn sniffs his own armpit and shrugs. “Wanna shower?”

For a moment, Harry’s distracted by Zayn taking the condom off and tying it in a knot. It’s only when Zayn raises his eyebrows in expectance that Harry comes back to the conversation.

He puts on his most convincing face before sweetly asking, “Can we make avocado toast and then shower?”

Harry beams when Zayn’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

“I don’t have any avocados, but we’ll shower then see what we can cook up, alright?”

Harry has to restrain himself from crawling back into Zayn’s lap and kissing him.

+

Harry wakes up with a warm body wrapped around his back, a nose tucked into his neck, and a firm dick nestled against his thighs.

He covers the hand resting on his stomach and feels it squeeze his fingers in greeting.

“Good morning,” Harry whispers, turning in Zayn’s arms. He leans in for a kiss, but it’s broken before it can begin by a shrill ringtone.

“Fuck,” Zayn swears. His breath is off, but it doesn’t turn Harry away. It stops for a heartbeat before starting up again. “I should get that.”

“No,” Harry moans. He lifts his arms as Zayn gets out of the bed. “Come back.”

“I’ll be right back,” Zayn reassures him. “Think about what you want to eat for breakfast.”

“Your dick!” Harry shouts. Although Zayn doesn’t respond, he’s met by muffled laughter. Harry flops onto his back and stares at the same spackle ceiling.

There are some things he should probably do before he goes to work today. Like return to the house and face the fact that he’s alone, but that seems too insurmountable of a task to think about when he’s got a naked Zayn wandering into the room at any moment.

When he does, Zayn immediately places his phone on his dresser and tosses Harry’s discarded clothes from the previous night on the bed.

It’s as though ice water is dumped on the mood. Harry burrows deeper under the duvet to combat the chill in the room, but there’s nothing he can do to tamper the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Zayn doesn’t quite look at him as he says, “I’ve got to go.”

“Go?” Harry repeats dumbly. “Where?”

“I’m meeting Jake for brunch and-”

“You broke up,” Harry reminds him.

“We’re on a break. It’s different.” He scours his drawers for jeans and a shirt while Harry stays in the bed too stunned to move. “We’re not broken up.”

“Not – Zayn.” Harry finally sits up, flabbergasted. “You’re not going to get back with him, right?”

“It was just a break.” Zayn slips a black shirt over his head.

He’s not being rude per se, but there’s a carefulness that he’s speaking with that causes confusion and worry to clash in Harry’s mind.

“What about last night?”

“What about last night?” Zayn asks. “We were drunk and it happened… you just broke up with Mariah and-”

“It wasn’t a rebound,” Harry says fiercely. “You’re more than that. You’re-”

“Don’t do this.” Zayn shakes his head. “Don’t make it into more than it was. You came here for comfort and sex and that happened. It doesn’t have to be anything more.”

“What are you saying? It wasn’t just sex for me, Zayn.” Harry swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re more than that. You’re-” Harry sniffs softly and slinks out of the bed. His boxers are a foot away and he drags them towards himself with his toe. He doesn’t enjoy the way guilt and foolishness makes him feel more exposed than being naked.

Zayn’s fully dressed now, but Harry can’t have him leave again.

“So you were just going to use me then go back to your boyfriend?”

“I didn’t use you, Haz.”

“It sure feels like it!” Harry bursts.

“God, can you not see how fucking selfish you’re being?” Zayn asks. He does up his fly and buttons his trousers. “You only think of yourself.”

“Me? You’re going to play house with your boyfriend when you were inside me 7 hours ago!” Harry watches Zayn put his glasses on and hunt for his shoes. “I want to be with you.” With Zayn’s back to him it feels easier to say.

“You don’t mean that,” Zayn argues. “You’re only saying that because you’re not with Mariah anymore. When you were with her, you wanted her.”

“I wanted you,” Harry confesses. “Ever since I saw you-”

“Don’t.” Zayn swivels around and faces Harry with a stern expression. “I understand that you’ve just ended a four year relationship, but I’m still in one and I have to think about the big picture. The future.”

“So am I!”

“You’re not,” Zayn tells him and that sinking feeling is back. “It’s the exact same as last time.”

It’s too déjà vu to do again. Harry’s throat constricts and his heart seizes and it feels like every drop of blood pumping in his body turns cold.

“I’m not,” Harry says defiantly. “I’m not some dumb kid anymore. I think about the future. I think-”

“What’s our future then, Harry?” Zayn asks.

“To be together.” Harry says.

Zayn snorts. Condescendence is written all over his face. “That’s naïve, Haz.”

“So what was last night for you then?”

“Last night was great, but you have to realize it was a one-time thing. Jake and I-”

“Jake and you are broken up!”

“No, we’re on a break. It’s different.”

Harry can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s like the last twelve hours – the last twelve weeks have meant nothing to him.

“Zayn, you can’t do this to me! You can’t just fuck with my emotions.”

“I’m the one fucking with you?” Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only one with feelings. Think about someone other than yourself.”

“You’re one to talk!” Harry scoops his pants up and shoves his legs into them. “You’re always leaving me.”

“Me!?” Satisfaction blooms in Harry’s chest at finally getting a reaction out of Zayn. “Newsflash, babe: you’re the one who broke up with me before uni and you’re the one who used me as a rebound.”

Harry buttons up his jeans and feels anger vibrate through him. “You’re the one who actually left! You’re leaving me right now.”

“I’m in a relationship, Harry. What do you want me to do?” Harry is about to speak, but Zayn’s ringtone slices through the silence.

“Don’t answer your phone,” Harry begs, stepping forward.

“I have to.”

“You don’t,” Harry argues. “Stay here. Stay with me – Zayn.”

Zayn avoids his gaze. The ringing stops and for a split second Harry feels hope, anticipation.

“Maybe we should cool off a bit. Get some space,” he suggests gently.

“Great,” Harry grumbles. “Have fun playing house. You still smell like sex, by the way.”

“Harry,” Zayn calls behind him, but Harry doesn’t stop to listen anymore.

He picks up his shoes by the front door and doesn’t even put them on until he’s in the elevator.

Walking away from Zayn, Harry realizes, doesn’t get any easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional warnings: moments of depression and anxiety


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience xxxx

Harry steps off the plane with ten and a half hours’ worth of grime on his skin and exhaustion in his bones.

He didn’t sleep a wink on the flight – too hyped up on the prospect of seeing his family and anxiousness about the state of his homecoming.

So, maybe booking a flight to California, quitting his job without notice, and sending his friends to collect and store everything from his old house wasn’t the most stellar idea that he’s had, but…

It’s been thirteen months and they’re surely over it.

His mum gives him the tightest hug he’s ever received in his life and after she’s kissed every inch of his face she hits his shoulder and glares at him.

“Don’t you ever think of doing that again,” she says sternly.

Harry blushes as passerby-ers openly stare. “I won’t, mum. Never again.”

The tears in her eyes spill over as she wraps her arms around his shoulders again. “You better not. Or at least give me some warning first. Your old mum can’t take any more heart attacks.”

Harry squeezes his mum and breathes in the familiar scent of her _Marc Jacobs_ perfume.

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

“Missed you too. You’ve grown your hair out a bit more, I see.”

“You saw it on Skype last week,” Harry laughs. He raises his suitcase handle and begins to wheel it in the direction of the exit.

“It’s not the same and you know it,” Anne says. “Anyway, do you want to grab a late lunch? There’s this adorable little sushi place on the way home that Robin and I have been going to.”

“Yeah, that’d be lovely, mum.”

“Good.” Anne digs around her purse for her keys. She nearly tramples over a child on a leash who’s escaped from their parent. “And I need you to run to the shops and grab the cake tomorrow.”

“Can you do that?” Guilt already crawls up the back of his spine. “I didn’t sleep much on the flight.”

“I’ve got to go early and set up.” She unlocks the car and waits for Harry to hoist his suitcase in the boot. “It’s your nephew’s first birthday, we need your help too.”

It isn’t until Harry clicks his seatbelt on that Anne faces him. She has her lecture face on. Harry was hoping they could put this off until he at least ate.

Anne takes one of his hands into both of hers.

“I know that last summer was rough for you,” she starts. “And I understand that you thought you had to run off to America and be some big photographer, but we’ve missed you. The people here who love you have missed you terribly and we want to see you.”

“I know,” Harry mumbles. He wills his racing heart to calm.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to leave, although you _have_ hurt a lot of us with how you left-” Harry thinks of big brown eyes and gentle touches, angry words yelled in the heat of the moment “-and some people are going to expect a lot out of you now that you’re back. Gemma is one of them.”

“Okay,” Harry nods.

“I’m not saying you have to grovel at her feet. You just have to spend time with her and listen to her yell at you for a bit.”

Harry taps his mum’s hand with his free one and swallows.

“I’ll make it up, I promise.”

Anne sniffles and removes her hands in order to wipe under her eyes. She smudges some of her mascara, although she doesn’t seem bothered when she wipes the tears on her jeans.

“Having you come back is all I wanted,” Anne says with a watery smile.

+

Harry taps his toes on the bakery floor and waits for the woman behind the counter to bring him his nephew’s cake.

He checks his watch for the third time and runs a hand through his hair. He’s let the sides grow out a bit more, making his hair more even in length. It’s reminiscent of the hair cut he had before he starting growing it to his shoulders and he still hasn’t made up his mind if he wants to grow it out again. He pushes his hair off his face, glancing to where the woman disappeared when he hears his name called.

At first, he doesn’t answer. He’s sure the voice is a hallucination; wishful thinking.

But when he hears it again – much closer and with a hand placed on his shoulder – he whirls around so fast he’s dizzy with it.

Or perhaps he’s dizzy from seeing Zayn’s face.

It simultaneously feels like decades and no time has passed at all. Zayn’s hair is styled in a high quiff while his eyes are as soft and brown as always. His lips are still pink and pouty, but there’re a couple more lines around his mouth and eyes that show the passage of time. He’s as stunning as ever and Harry feels like a mouse in a trap.

“Hi,” Zayn says, smiling. It looks genuine, no trace of anger or malice.

“Um.” Harry swallows; licks his dry lips. “Hey.”

“How was America?”

“Good. It was – good,” Harry nods. His heart jackrabbits in his chest, palms sweaty. “How are you?”

“I’m good, yeah.” Zayn steps forward with an outstretched arm. He looks like a cautious child approaching a wild animal. “You’re so tan,” Zayn says. “You look great-”

 

As if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, Harry visibly starts. His heart beats double time, mouth impossibly dry again. He can’t be here. He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_. He turns away from Zayn and begins walking when he remembers the bloody cake.

He keeps his eyes fixed firmly to the ground as he scuttles back. The lady has the cake outstretched for him and he mumbles a polite ‘thank you’ before turning around to walk away again. It’s in the complete opposite direction of the front door, but he doesn’t care. The squeak of his boots on the tile is barely heard over the sound of Zayn calling for him.

“Harry wait,” Zayn calls, catching up to him.

Harry makes a sharp left and ignores the look of a nosey teenager. He’s sure they’re causing quite the scene what with the way he’s practically running through the aisles with Zayn hot on his heels.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Zayn hisses when Harry speeds up his steps.

They pass an elderly man who tuts at them. Embarrassment burns hot on his cheeks. Why won’t Zayn just give up?

When Harry’s run out of aisles in the small shop, he finally turns around and faces Zayn.

“What?” He seethes, much angrier than necessary.

Zayn’s face falls, confusion crumpling his eyebrows. “I want to talk to you.”

“I’m in a rush.” To prove his point, he lifts up the cake.

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t realize. Ollie’s one today, right.”

Harry sniffs and shuffles his feet. He wonders how Zayn knows his nephew’s name.

“Yes, he is. And I’m late, so.” Despite his words, Harry makes no move to leave.

Harry’s rooted in the spot with Zayn’s eyes on him. He’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that he’s mildly curious as to what Zayn’s going to say next. Harry has his guard up; Zayn is as calm as ever.

Harry stares at the cake – the baby elephant, zebra, and lion don’t seem to expect anything of him whereas Zayn’s prolonged silence makes him feel exposed.

“How long are you in town for?”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. “Not long.”

Zayn’s tongue peaks out to lick his lips. “Could we meet up before you go?”

Harry scoffs. “Don’t really feel like having a one night stand again.”

“Not for that,” Zayn shakes his head. “We should talk.” At Harry’s hesitance, Zayn says, “I want to talk to you. There are so many things I want to say. We have so much to talk about.”

“We don’t,” Harry denies. He takes a shaky breath.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to return to Cheshire, find a job, and dispel any and all thoughts of Zayn.

Zayn reaches out, then snaps his hand back to his side at the last minute. Harry takes it as his cue to go and turns to find the front of the shop.

“Please,” Zayn says to his back.

Harry rolls his eyes, nostrils flaring. He turns to face Zayn one more time, taking in his sincere eyes and hopeful grin.

“I don’t – I can’t,” he stutters.

And with that, he flees, through the automatic doors and into the carpark as fast as his shaky legs and erratic heart will take him.

+

Harry doesn’t remember his first birthday party, but he’s confident it’s nothing like his nephew’s.

Gemma’s backyard is decorated with red and yellow streamers. There’s a small bouncy castle off to the side and a kiddie pool with bath toys floating around. The food table is overflowing with fruit and vegetable platters, bowls of animal crackers and juice boxes. Music intertwines with the sound of children’s squealing and parents’ chatter. Harry only knows a few people – some cousins he’ll have to mingle with and his parents chatting with Gemma’s husband’s dad.

“Uncle Harry!”

Harry sets the cake down in time to catch Ellis’ flailing body. He lifts her up high in the sky before holding her tight to his chest and littering her face with kisses. She’s wiggly and giggly in his arms and makes no move to get down. He focuses on the joy and weightlessness he gets from being around his niece rather than his encounter with Zayn and his imminent encounter with Gemma.

Being in the present is something he worked on a lot in Los Angeles. It was laid back and easy to focus on the day’s events when he wasn’t too upset about his past and too anxious for his future.

So he takes a deep breath and plasters on a smile that feels more real with every second he spends with his niece in his arms.

“How are you, princess?”

Ellis shoves her hands over her mouth to cover her giggles.

Hopelessly endeared, Harry tickles her stomach.

“I like your swimsuit,” Harry tells her. “It’s very purple.”

“Thank you,” Ellis says shyly.

Harry wishes he had brought his camera to capture it. As it is, he contorts his face into a silly grin and waits for her to imitate it. When she does, he changes it, to stick his tongue out wide and bulge his eyes. Ellis claps her hands and makes a grab for his tongue.

Harry snorts. He captures her hands and blows a big raspberry against her cheek.

“Where’s your mama?”

“Kitchen.” Ellis kicks her feet until Harry sets her down, then she grabs his hand and takes off.

Harry stumbles after her, dodging a flailing child with a fistful of sweets in their hand.

Gemma’s hair is longer and her face is fuller, but the stern expression on her face is still the same. Ollie’s bouncing happily on her hip, tugging a piece of her neatly curled hair. Ellis drops Harry’s hand and runs towards him, making grabby hands while Gemma continues to stare Harry down.

“Well come meet your nephew then.” She rolls her eyes like she’s annoyed, but then a smile breaks over her features and Harry’s rushing to wrap his arms around her before he can stop himself.

Anne coos from the corner, no doubt taking out her cellphone to snap a photo of the four of them.

“Missed you, idiot,” Gemma says into his ear. “Now,” she steps back and twists until Harry can see Ollie’s chubby face. He’s bigger than Ellis was at his age. “You’re on baby duty for the rest of the party.”

Harry laughs, delighted, and happily takes his nephew into his arms.

+

One of the couples Harry stayed with in L.A. had two children; a five year old and a two year old.

They were beach blond sweethearts that called him ‘ _Haiwy_ ’ and clung to him like leeches. Harry would spend hours on end reading with them, playing with them, and photographing them. He did plenty of photoshoots with his mate’s children in his downtime and eventually spent more time with people under the age of seven then he did with people his own age.

Some kids were fussy when he tried to photograph them and there was one little ginger girl who vomited all over his hand when he was straightening out her shirt, but for the most part, he always enjoyed capturing the smiles, laughs, and candid moments.

It’s what led him to convincing Gemma that doing a photoshoot of Ellis and Ollie would be the perfect bonding experience for them.

Ellis is currently sitting on a woolly blanket in the park. She’s got a pink sundress on with a blue bow that matches the bow tie around Ollie’s neck. She’s smiling brightly while Ollie gnaws on her arm.

“Is he hurting you, Els?”

“Nope,” Ellis grins. “He’s teething. _All_ his teeth are coming.” She shoves a finger in his mouth.

As gross as it is, Harry’s heart melts a little bit at that. He takes a picture. Then zooms in and captures the moment Ellis removes her hand and wraps both arms around him to squeeze him tightly.

“Gentle,” Harry reminds her. He rises up a bit higher to change the angle.

Ollie babbles and wraps his arms around Ellis’ stomach. Ellis shrieks and squirms. Harry clicks the shutter-release button. Not for the first time, Harry yearns for children of his own. He yearns for the intensity of a parent-child bond. He yearns for seeing his own features and mannerisms in a small human. He yearns for the laughter, tears, successes, and failures. Most of all he yearns for proof that he had a love so great, that they decided to create an entire other person to show for it.

He shoves that thought away and keeps snapping picture.

+

Seeing Niall is like coming home.

He’s warm and mildly sunburnt and his accent is just as strong as that day Harry left.

Of course, there were phone calls, and facetimes, and moments when they were drunk and lonely and needed someone to comfort them.

It doesn’t compare to the feeling of sitting across from Niall, sharing a pitcher of beer, and talking crap about sports.

“I can’t believe you call American football, _football_ , now. A fucking disgrace,” Niall swears. “If Louis ever heard you saying that, he’d never talk to you again.”

“He doesn’t talk to me now,” Harry mumbles.

“Shit, I-”

“It’s fine,” Harry says before Niall can backtrack anymore. “We were never proper friends, anyway. I saw that he has a girlfriend now.”

“Yeah,” Niall nods. “She’s an American actress. Don’t think you know her.”

“Probably not. I didn’t spend a lot of time watching telly.”

“Of course.” Niall rolls his eyes while filling Harry’s pint. He’s amazing at multitasking, it’s a true art. “Spent all your time tanning and taking pictures and charming the pants off of everyone.”

“I wouldn’t say _everyone_ ,” Harry laughs. “Speaking of. How’s Waliyha?”

Niall actually _beams_ at him. “Fucking great. I’d propose to her tomorrow if she’d have me.”

That actually makes Harry pause.

“Would she say no?”

“We’ve talked about it,” Niall admits with an adorable blush. “She wants to be a bit older, though. Get her degree, settle into a job somewhere. I’m fine with that. I’ve got my career.”

“Just a waiting game now, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Niall smiles. “Do you know if you’re staying here?”

“In Cheshire? Nope,” Harry shakes his head. “I’ve been talking to my old boss about having him put in a good word for me for a couple magazines in London, but – we’ll see.”

“Speaking of London…” Niall trails off and takes a large gulp from his beer. He wipes off the foam clinging to his upper lip. “Capital offered me a promotion for September.”

“What!” Harry shouts, earning the attention from a couple near their table. “A promotion to what?”

“The breakfast show in London.”

Harry balls up his napkin and aims it at Niall’s head. It misses, barely brushing Niall’s chest.

“You didn’t tell me that! That’s unbelievable, Ni. I’m so happy for you.”

Niall’s an ever darker shade of red now. “Thanks. Yeah, it – I’m really excited. It’ll be a bitch of a commute to see Wali on the weekends. It’ll be worth it though.”

“Of course it will,” Harry enthuses. “Oh my God. I’m so proud of you.”

“You’ll have to come visit me.”

And that’s – that deep, ugly, anxious feeling that Harry’s been working to reject creeps up on him again. Niall’s breakfast show means Mariah and even with a change of location…

Harry’s not ready to see her.

As much as he’s over what happened between them, he could live a million lifetimes without seeing her.

“She’s staying in Manchester,” Niall answers the question Harry didn’t ask. “She’s moved in with her, um… her boyfriend.”

Harry scrapes a bit of dirt from under his nail and flicks it onto the floor.

“Is the boyfriend the same guy who-”

“Yeah,” Niall nods. “They actually moved in together a couple weeks after you left.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Mhmm. They’re actually in Egypt right now so you don’t have to worry about running into them,” he jokes.

Harry can’t even muster a smile.

“I don’t really want to know,” Harry says apologetically. “I know you’re still friends with her, but I’d rather we didn’t talk about her.”

Niall nods and shoves the plate of chips closer to Harry. He dunks a few in curry sauce and shoves them in his mouth.

“I saw Zayn,” Harry tells him.

Niall sits up straighter. He folds his arms on the table and wiggles his eyebrows.

Harry rolls his eyes and throws a chip at him. “Stop that.”

“I’m interested!” Niall pleads. “I care, Haz. How’d that go? What’d he say?”

“Nothing, really. It was awkward. He kept saying he wanted to talk.”

“Did you?”

Harry has a feeling that Niall has already spoken to Zayn about it.

“I was in a rush.”

“Oh.” Niall frowns at him. “Do you still have his number? He hasn’t changed it.”

“I don’t think I should talk to him,” Harry argues.

“I think there’s a lot for you to say. In fact, I _know_ , you both have a lot to say.”

“It happened a year ago. I bet he’s still with Jake-”

“He’s not,” Niall rushes.

Harry stops to glare. “And even if he’s _not_ , then that doesn’t change anything.”

“It’s got to.” Niall says exasperatedly. “Haz come on. You weren’t here when you left, okay? He was a mess. He didn’t know what to do. He was over at Wali’s half the time and when he wasn’t with her, he was with me or Tommo. All he’d talk about was messing up.”

Harry scoffs. “Messing up his and Jake’s relationship, no doubt.”

“ _No_ ,” Niall says adamantly. “You’re not even fucking listening. Waliyha would have my balls if she knew I was telling you this. He loves you, Harry. Him and Jake broke up because Jake wanted Zayn to move in with him and Zayn said it was moving too fast. He had a proper mental fucking breakdown over it.”

“Ugh,” Harry groans and buries his head in his arms. “I can’t talk to him.” He can’t be selfish like that again. He can’t hurt him.

Harry opens his mouth to argue some more. Before he can, Niall throws his arms up and shouts at the telly mounted behind Harry’s head.

“How is that a fucking yellow card!?”

+

Harry sleeps fitfully.

He dreams of sunny L.A. and drinking mimosas with his feet buried in the sand. He’s wearing a pair of tiny white swim shorts, his favourite straw fedora balanced carefully on his head. He shields his eyes from the sun and leans up onto his forearms to watch the waves roll in and try to kiss his feet.

Something in the water catches his eye.

It’s not a bright orange buoy in the distance, but a body floating in the water. Harry sits up straighter and squints before ripping his sunglasses from his eyes to get a better view.

When a wave rolls in the distance, strong and blue, the body bobs and flips over.

Harry recognizes the caramel skin and the smattering of tattoos and he knows – just knows – that it’s Zayn. He’s up in a flash, running into the water. Zayn is pushed closer with every wave and Harry’s lungs ache and his face is salty from a mixture of sea and tears and no matter how far he gets, how fast he tries to run against the resistant water – he can’t reach him.

Harry keeps screaming, keeps reaching, but Zayn’s body just floats and floats and floats. Harry dives into the water, but he’s pulled under and then he’s kicking and thrashing and still screaming as water drowns his voice and fills his lungs and –

Harry gasps awake.

He scrambles for his phone and checks the time: 3:49am. Although he’d only slept for a few hours, he feels wide awake now.

Standing on shaky legs, Harry makes his way to the bathroom across the hall. He splashes water over his face and under his armpits. He cups water and slurps it, still panting.

He keeps the lights off as he descends the stairs. The pipes creak as he fills a glass, sipping as calmly and quietly as he can muster. He can’t get the sight of Zayn floating away from him out of his mind. It’s like every time he blinks there’s another nightmare scarring him.

It’s been weeks since his last nightmare – Zayn trapped in a fire while Harry tried to get him out – and it’s been even longer since the first one – Zayn jumping off a bridge before Harry could reach him.

Each time, Harry wakes up drenched in sweat, with wet eyes, and a dry throat.

“You’re up late,” Robin says, making Harry jump.

Robin’s wearing a set of red and navy striped flannel pajamas with his glasses propped on his face. “Can’t sleep?”

“Jetlag,” Harry explains.

Robin pats Harry on the back before dragging him in for an uncharacteristically long hug. He hasn’t seen Robin a whole lot since he came back from America moved back in with them. He works long hours and goes to bed rather early while Harry prefers to see Niall and spend time with his sister and the babies.

“It’s been good to have you back this past week,” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. His throat is still dry. He sips at his water to smother the guilt.

“Do you want some tea?” Robin’s already filling the kettle. “Or…” he flicks the water off and opens the utensil drawer, coming back with two teaspoons. “I’ve got some cookie dough ice cream in the fridge if you would prefer. Always cures nightmares.” He winks as if it’s their secret.

Harry flushes, embarrassed. He hopes he didn’t scream in his sleep – or worse, scream for Zayn.

Robin gets the container of cookie dough ice cream out and eats around the chunks. Harry used to find cookie dough or chunky fudge at the bottom of ice cream containers because Robin always knew that those were Harry’s favourite bits. Anne would get so exasperated at the pair of them, but she never seemed to throw out the boxes despite her anger.

“Have you thought about going back?” Robin asks. There’s some caramel coloured ice cream clinging to the corner of his moustache.

“Maybe,” Harry shifts against the counter. “I didn’t book a flight or anything and they said they could transfer me to the London office if I wanted but… I really liked L.A.”

“Well, perhaps your mum and I can visit you this time.”

“That’d be great,” Harry nods. “I’d love to show you around.”

Robin laughs and digs around a cookie dough chunk.

“I know you’re probably already sick of hearing this, Harry.” Harry’s body tenses up, preparing for a lecture. Robin’s never been much of a disciplinarian, although if there’s one thing Harry’s sure of it’s that Robin will protect his mum until his dying breath. “But if you decide to go off again, just give us a bit of warning next time, yeah?”

Harry laughs around his spoon. “I will.”

“Good. Your mum will never tell you, but there were a couple of times she almost bought a plane ticket herself. Especially in those first few weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs. “Thank you for taking care of her during… _that_.”

Robin’s cheeks puff as he laughs. “Of course. When you love someone you’ll do anything for them, y’know? You put them first.”

“I know.” It feels like a lie. Harry sucks his cheeks in and puts his spoon in the sink with a clang. Suddenly, he’s no longer hungry. He barely manages above a whisper when he says, “I – I think I might have fucked up. I’m really in love and I don’t think it will work out.”

“There’s nothing an apology won’t fix.”

“I think I messed up beyond an apology,” Harry shakes his head, feeling miserable for himself. “I was self-centered and horrible. I put myself first.”

“Can you talk to him?” Robin’s face is full of knowing. It’s not a surprise really; of course his mum would tell him how he fucked it all up with Zayn and fled the country like a coward. “Tell him how you feel?”

“I feel like doing that would be selfish.”

“I don’t think so,” Robin disagrees. “It might be more selfish of you not to tell him how you feel. If you withhold your feelings you’re denying him the opportunity to choose what he wants. You’re deciding for him, Harry.”

“When did you get so clever?”

Robin puts his spoon on top of Harry’s and brings him in for a reassuring hug.

“Your mum married me for more than my handsome face,” Robin says.

Harry laughs, undoubtedly waking up the cat.

“All you can do is speak honestly and from your heart. If they love you, they’ll listen.”

Robin pats Harry on the back and shuts the ice cream box with finality.

Each step up the stairs feels like walking to the electric chair.

Harry’s knees are weak and his hands won’t stop twitching. Lying on top of his sheets in nothing except for his pants, with music softly playing from his speakers and moonlight streaming in, Harry thinks long and hard about what he wants.

There had been plenty of time for self-reflection in California. Harry was able to accept the fact that what he felt for Mariah doesn’t even come close to how he feels for Zayn. He doesn’t bother to mourn the years he spent with her because it was what he needed at the time and he learned a lot from that experience. Still, that doesn’t stop him from wishing they were able to break it off before things got so messy; before it was distant and malicious.

He should have mentioned it that first night outside of the wine shop.

He should have realized that Zayn was always going to be a part of his life.

Oh God, Harry hopes Zayn still wants to be a part of his life.

He hopes Robin’s right.

Hell, he’s praying that Robin is right.

He waits until the sun’s barely come up before he thumbs through his contacts.

“‘lo?” Zayn’s voice is scratchy and deep.

Harry buries his face in his pillow and takes a long, steadying breath.

“Harry?”

“Hey,” Harry whispers, throat dry. “Um. How are you?”

“Fine.” There’s a long pause. It’s debatable whether or not Zayn’s fallen asleep on him.

“Okay.” Harry takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice even. “Do you remember when you said I was selfish? That first time,” Harry clarifies. “I asked if you thought we could be together if we were two different people and you said no. You said that we could’ve made it if I hadn’t been so selfish and then you said it again last year.” Harry’s not even sure if Zayn’s listening, but he doesn’t want to lose his confidence. “I thought a lot about that in America. I love you so much, Zayn – so much that it scares me and I thought that if I came back and tried to be with you, that that would be selfish. But I realized I was being selfish by not telling you how I feel because when you love someone you put them first.” Harry’s voice cracks at the end and he waits.

He waits and waits and waits for any sound other than Zayn’s even breathing to come back to him.

It feels like hours, but it’s probably only a few seconds when Zayn’s scratchy voice says, “You want to come by later? I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Harry let’s out a sigh of relief. There’s something in Zayn’s voice that sparks a glimmer of hope; that has Harry hiding his smile into his pillow and praying that Zayn still wants to talk to him as badly as he had a week ago. “I’ll come around.”

+

**Five Years Later**

Harry blinks his eyes open slowly and inhales the salty scent of the ocean. He raises his arms above his head for a big morning stretch before remembering that he settled into the hammock after brewing a cup of coffee.

It sits cold and forgotten on the railing in front of him.

The sun is higher than it had been earlier, but it’s still low enough that he’s not in danger of burning his skin. His shirt clings to the sweat on his lower back and his long hair is matted to the back of his neck.

He could lie here all day.

Carefully, he rolls onto his side and takes in the view of the Pacific Ocean.

Harry’s been waiting for this ever since he was woken up by excited kisses and presented an envelope with plane tickets on a dreary March morning. For weeks he had been irritable and cranky, snapping at the tiniest of things. He never expected the generosity and thoughtfulness of a vacation to his favourite place.

He’s just about to try to sneak inside and grab his camera to take a couple of photos of the waves crashing against the sand when a loud shout breaks through his serenity.

“Daddy!”

Harry flails, falling out of the hammock spectacularly.

A toe pokes Harry in the back of the head. He stifles his smile and keeps still.

“Daddy are you hurt?” The voice asks, small and timid.

“I don’t know, Violet,” Harry moans. “Can you check for me?”

Harry hears his daughter patter around until her green eyes are staring curiously in his. When she reaches out a hand, Harry turns sharply, seizing her wrist and pretending to chew her hand.

Violet squeals, completely delighted as she tries to wretch herself free.

“Daddy, no!” She laughs, cheeks turning red. She’ll wake up her brother if she’s not careful, but Harry can’t find it in himself to care.

“But I’m so _hungry_ , Vi and you’ll taste so good!”

Harry pulls her down and tickles his fingers up her sides. She flops around helplessly, kneeing his stomach.

“What in the world is going on in here?”

“Baba save me!” Violet scurries out of Harry’s hold and latches her arms around Zayn’s legs. “Daddy was eating me!”

Zayn rolls his eyes, clearly amused and ruffles Violet’s messy hair.

“Daddy started _eating_ you?” Zayn asks.

Harry will never get over the thrill of Zayn calling him daddy in conversation. His spine tingles and his insides flutter. He files that aside as Violet nods seriously and shows Zayn her right hand.

“He almost bit my hand off. Feel it, it’s all slobbery!”

“Harry,” Zayn squawks. “Don’t eat her hand, that’s all bony.” Violet crosses her arms over her chest and smirks at Harry. She looks sassier than a five year old has any business looking. “Eat her brains!”

He grabs Violet around the middle at the same time that she lets out an ear piercing shriek. Harry jumps at the opportunity to tease her, tickling her sides while Zayn snaps his teeth at her nose.

“You’re crazy!” Violet giggles. “Get off me!”

Harry and Zayn seize fire at the same time.

“Can you give us a kiss?” Harry asks. He kisses her with a loud smooching sound, knowing that in a couple of years she’ll be too cool for the show of indulgent affection.

She turns her head to kiss Zayn as well and cuddles into his neck.

“Morning,” Harry says, finally greeting his husband.

“Morning babe.”

It’s a quick kiss; nothing more than they gave their daughter, but it has her making a disgusted noise. Her nose is crinkled and her eyebrows scrunched up. She looks like she’s swallowed an entire lemon.

“Gross,” she mutters, wiggling until her feet are flat on the ground.

“Gross!?” Harry cries out in false outrage. “You think daddy and baba kissing is gross?” When Violet nods, Harry shares a knowing grin with his husband. “Know what we have to do, baba?”

“Eat her brains?” Zayn asks, linking their fingers.

Harry can’t help the goofy smile that’s found its way across his face as he watches their daughter scurry off inside their hotel room. He tears his eyes away from where she went screeching like a banshee and is met with Zayn’s intense stare.

“I love you,” Harry tells him because the happiness is about to make his chest burst.

“You can’t catch me!” Violet taunts loudly.

“C’mon,” Zayn nods towards the room before kissing the back of Harry’s hand. “Let’s grab her before she wakes her brother and half the hotel.”

Harry clutches Zayn’s hand as he follows him. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> [come chat!](http://vinoharry.tumblr.com/ask/)   
>  [complete tumblr post](http://vinoharry.tumblr.com/post/149346383173/)


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